


Under the Same Star

by trepkos



Category: Arthur of the Britons
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-06
Updated: 2012-04-07
Packaged: 2017-10-30 17:10:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 28,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/334099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trepkos/pseuds/trepkos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur, Llud and some of his people are taken prisoner by Cerdig.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> In this universe, Llud still raised Arthur, but he never brought home a Saxon child.  
> Timeline: pre-canon (Arthur is about 21)

Yesterday had been long, with a hard fight at the end of it. They’d been expecting an attack since noon, but none had come, and then, at dusk, when they’d been starting to relax, thinking the Celts had not noticed the deliberate incursion into their territory, the dark-haired savages had fallen upon their supply wagons.

Supply wagons loaded, not with supplies, but with Saxon warriors.

Cynric didn’t like the tactic. It seemed cowardly, and, as Cerdig’s adopted son and trusted lieutenant, he’d been bold enough to risk saying so. But Cerdig would not be swayed; they must deter the attacks on their supply trains coming from the coast.

Having voiced his objections, Cynric had felt obliged to acquit himself with more than his usual efficiency in the fight. Despite the advantage of height and speed their horses gave the Celts, he’d killed three, and captured another, before the survivors had melted back among the trees to lick their wounds.

Why Cerdig refuses to consider that the Saxons take to horse, Cynric has never understood. As their party makes its way back through the morning mist towards home, he looks at the two captured horses, tethered behind the ox-cart full of captured Celts.

They’re beautiful: the horses, that is – and they don’t look too hard to handle. There and then, Cynric decides that he will learn to ride. Perhaps he can make one of these Celts give him instruction … if they aren’t all killed at once, or quickly ransomed.

He studies the prisoners: seven men, most of them in their late twenties, though there’s one old warrior among them. He looks tough. Their faces are smeared with mud. Many bear wounds that may fester if left untended, and they’ve been left bound, and under close guard all night; given no food or water.

It’s not right.

One prisoner – the youngest by a few years – has something about him that keeps drawing Cynric’s gaze. Muddied and bloodied like the rest, this dark-haired Celt keeps his head down; burning resentment thrums in every line of body. The older man mutters something to him, and he bites his lip, and nods.

Then the Celt raises his head, and meets Cynric’s gaze, piercing him with his ice-blue eyes, and Cynric feels a shudder of … what? Sympathy? No … it is more than that: a kind of recognition.

Though he has never seen hair so black, nor eyes so full of fire …

~~

One of their Saxon captors, a fearsome warrior whom Arthur has heard called Cynric, has been watching him closely all throughout the journey. Why has he been singled out for such attention? Perhaps this Saxon bears some special grudge. He must take care when Cynric is around – not that there’s anything he can do; if Cynric wants to … well, they’re at his mercy.

Arthur tries not to think what that might mean; showing fear won’t do him any good.

Cynric stays with the wagon until it rumbles to a halt, a little way inside the Saxon gates. A few of the villagers gather round to gawp at them, and as their captors start herding them out of the wagon, the watching Saxons whistle, and yell threats and insults; ‘filthy Celts’, ‘horse-fuckers’, ‘let’s cut their –’ 

Arthur closes his ears. Things are bad enough. It rained all night, and, to a man, they’re soaked to the skin, and shivering. The cold morning skies threaten to drop more misery upon them.

Llud looks bone-weary and defeated. Arthur’s heart breaks to see his father so. Then, as Llud climbs down from the cart, he slips, and a flaxen-haired guard catches him a blow to the shoulder that sends him sprawling in the mud.

Most of the Saxons laugh.

Arthur can do nothing; like the rest, he has his hands bound behind his back.

Llud struggles to his knees; another Saxon shoves him on his face.

Still, Arthur bites his tongue. If he protests, it will just make things worse; give their captors leverage over them.

Now, the pack starts closing in round Llud, making animal noises: snorts and grunts, but Cynric, pushing amongst them, makes an impatient gesture.

“Enough of this.” His voice sounds as if it had been born at a mountain’s roots. “I’m hungry. Let’s just get them in the hut.” And now, he too approaches Llud.

Arthur steps in his way – can’t help himself – but Cynric just pushes past, and hauls Llud to his feet. “Come on, Old Man.”

Llud pulls free, muttering, “I’m not old.” 

Arthur steels himself; Llud’s sure to be punished.

But no; a smile – a real smile – touches Cynric’s lips.

A strange feeling of kinship brushes against Arthur’s heart, like wings; he nods his thanks.

Cynric turns away. “Hengist – why don’t I see to these prisoners? It’s been a long night. Your family will be anxious to see you. Just unshackle the oxen first, if you would.”

Hengist – the guard who first pushed Llud – looks as if he might argue the point, then shrugs. “You’re welcome to this lot.” He leads the oxen away.

Then the other Saxons chivvy them across the muddy paddock, towards the larger of two huts.

One of the guards – a man with a scar on his right cheek – pokes Gavyn in the back with his axe haft. “I’ll get these Celtic pigs secured to the centre post.”

Cynric rolls his eyes. “To what end, Darnel? Their hands are bound. There are enough of us to guard them. What? Are they going to barge past us? Slither out on their bellies?”

“Wouldn’t put it past ’em,” a freckle-faced young Saxon pipes up. “Sneaky Celts.”

Cynric claps him on the back. “Wulfstan – go and fetch these prisoners some food and drink.”

Wulfstan trudges off, chuntering to himself about how he shouldn’t have to wait on Celtic scum.

As they go into the hut, Arthur turns to Llud. “What’s to be done with us, do you think?” 

Llud shakes his head. “Well … they haven’t killed us yet. If we’re lucky, we’ll be ransomed – though our people can ill-afford it. But they mustn’t learn your name. If they find out who they have among their prisoners …”

Llud looks significantly at the others. Most of them nod.

Darnel leans into the hut, and bawls, “Sit down, you lot! And no more talking!”

They all sit down around the walls, with Arthur to Llud’s left, nearest the doorway. Then they wait, in silence.

There’s a commotion outside: “What is this?” Cynric thunders. “Mouldy bread and rancid meat? Is that how we treat our captives?”

“But they’re only stinking Celts. Why should we –”

“Celts who might be worth silver to us. More than your useless hide. If we’re to ransom them, they must survive. Now go and bring food that’s fit for men to eat.”

Llud looks at Arthur, his eyebrows raised. 

“Perhaps there is some honour among the Saxons,” Arthur says quietly. “Though by the sound of things – not very much.”

~~

And here comes Cerdig, booming, “Are these Celtic scoundrels complaining about the food? Who do they think –”

“No. It was I who sent the food back.” Cynric purses his lips. “It was not fit for swine.”

“Oh … well, that’s alright then.” Cerdig slaps him on the back. “I’m sure you’re right, my boy.”

Cynric has taught himself not to flinch at his step-father’s touch. “Will we be sending word to the Celts, to negotiate a ransom?”

“That’s why I’m here. I need their names, so the scribe can include them in the demand.” 

Cynric nods, and follows Cerdig and his little weasel-faced scribe into the hut.

The Saxons always say the Celts stink; as if to prove the point, Cerdig coughs, and wafts a hand before his face.

It does smell rank in here, but that’s not a surprise. These men have lain in wait, and fought, been hurt and captured; spent all night in an open wagon in the rain. And they must be afraid.

Cynric knows what that’s like; he lives his life on the knife’s edge. At least, that’s how it feels.

Cerdig looks round the hut. “Who speaks for you Celts?”

The dark-haired man – Cynric can’t stop looking at him – opens his mouth, but then the older man – the one who fell – says loudly, “I do.” 

The dark-haired one frowns slightly.

Cerdig nods. “You’re the one with the iron fist.” 

“I am Llud, of the Silver Hand.”

“Yes, I’ve heard of you.” Cerdig cocks his head. “So you’re the great Arthur’s mentor, eh?”

“That’s correct.” Llud looks neither left nor right.

The other Celts are all staring at the floor.

“I wonder how much he’ll pay to get you back …”

Llud snorts. “We’re not a wealthy people.”

Cerdig gestures towards the scribe. “Well – I want all your names, so I can send word to your people that you have been captured.”

The dark-haired warrior looks up. “We’re to be ransomed, then?”

Cerdig looks sharply at him. “Be quiet, and let your leader speak. You’ll find out in good time.”

The man falls silent, though he looks as if it pains him so to do.

“Now …” Cerdig turns a questioning glance on Llud. “If you will …”

Looking to his right, Llud starts telling the names of each of the other Celts in turn, and, following Llud’s gaze around the room, Cynric waits with bated breath to hear what he must call the dark-haired warrior, in his thoughts.

“Owen, Conyn, Rhys, Dafydd, Gavyn, and … Kai.”

‘Kai’ … 

The frown creasing Kai’s forehead deepens as his name is spoken.

The scribe looks up. “All done.”

“Let the prisoners have their food.” Cerdig waves a hand. He and the scribe depart.

Wulfstan and Darnel enter, and put three bowls on the ground; one of porridge, one of meat, and one of bread.

The one called Conyn looks up at them. “How are we to eat, with our hands bound?”

“Like pigs in a trough.” Darnel grabs Conyn by the back of his tunic, and starts dragging him towards the bowls. “That’s just normal for you lot, in’t it?” 

Cynric puts a hand on Darnel’s arm. “No. That won’t do. There will be too much mess. We will untie the hands of one man at a time, and let him eat. Then take him out to the latrine, then bind his hands again.” 

Wulfstan scoffs. “Latrine, indeed! Why not let them sit in their own filth, like they do at home?”

“Hey!”

Conyn earns a kick from Baldulf for his complaint.

Cynric shakes his head. “Show some sense. If we do that, guarding them will soon become intolerable.”

The guards all grunt and nod, but no one makes a move towards the prisoners.

“Well, let’s get on with it.” His heart racing, Cynric approaches Kai. “Turn around, that I may unbind your hands.”

But Kai jerks his head towards Llud. “Let our leader eat first.”

He’s right – the leader should eat first – but still, Cynric feels a twinge of disappointment.

Llud turns, and Cynric goes to untie the ropes around his hands: the right one, gloved.

Then Darnel shouts, “Look out for that arm!”

Cynric steps back a pace. He sees a look of vexation fleet across Kai’s face. Darnel – wily old sod that he is – was right to warn him; Kai must have hoped he’d given Llud a chance to use his metal fist.

And Cynric feels … betrayed.

It’s foolish. Kai is a prisoner; owes him nothing. Cynric would have done the same – tried anything for a chance to escape. Why does he feel like this?

Darnel sneers. “Still think we should untie him?” 

Baldulf puts a dagger to the throat of one of the other Celts. “This’ll stop him getting up to any funny business.”

Llud nods. “I understand.”

Darnel draws his axe. “You’d better.” 

Cynric unties Llud’s hands; Llud eats his share, then Darnel and Wulfstan – their weapons at the ready – take him out to the latrine. When he returns, his hands are already tightly bound once more.

Kai turns to have his ropes untied, but Cynric is angry: with Kai, and with himself – for wanting … wanting … he knows not what. To touch this man – his heart, his hand, some part of him.

“Not you,” Cynric says harshly. 

Kai turns back, his face a sullen mask.

With heavy heart, Cynric points to the man sitting to Llud’s right. “Him next.”

Now he will have to make Kai wait until the rest have had their food, or else it will look … odd. Meanwhile, Kai sends Cynric to a frozen hell. 

By the time the sixth man – a well-built youth called Gavyn – is untied, there’s not much left in any of the bowls. Gavyn glances at Kai; he makes some mental calculation, then he stints himself, taking less than he leaves. 

Only when Gavyn is brought back from the latrine can Cynric point at Kai. “Your turn.”

Kai seems to tense, then shuffles round to let Cynric untie him.

Cynric’s heart is beating fast as he comes near, and faster as he goes down to his haunches; as the black silk of Kai’s hair caresses his cheek. His fingers are clumsy, fumbling with the knots. They brush against the soft skin of Kai’s wrist; a shudder runs through him.

He tugs the rope free, pats Kai on the shoulder, and steps back. “Now – eat.”

Kai gives him a look he cannot fathom, then eats all the cold scraps that are left, wiping the crust of bread around the porridge bowl, and tearing the last small shreds of meat off the bones.

When he has finished, Darnel swaggers over and kicks him. “You know the horse you were riding – that lovely white one?”

Kai looks up sharply. “Yes. What about it?”

Darnel guffaws. “What do you think you’ve been eating?”

A gasp comes from some of the Celts. Kai chokes, stares at the bowl that held the meat, and Cynric thinks he sees a film of tears cloud the man’s eyes.

“Darnel!” Cynric pushes Darnel in the chest. “Do not torment our prisoners.” Then he puts a hand on Kai’s shoulder. “Your horse lives.”

Kai heaves in a breath; looks up at him with hatred in his eyes. “For how long? How long before you slaughter our horses, and us as well?”

Cynric shakes his head. “You will surely be ransomed. Your horses – I will speak to Cerdig. See if he will spare them, also.”

Kai looks away. “Thank you.”

Darnel shakes his head at Cynric. “Why are you so soft on these bastards?”

Cynric heaves a sigh. “Well, how would you like it, if you were captured by the Celts, and treated so?”

Darnel scoffs, and rubs at the scar on his face.

~~

When they are left alone inside the hut – the Saxon guards outside – Arthur turns to Llud. “Why give that name to me?”

Llud shrugs. “I had to tell them something.”

“But … the name of your son – killed by the Saxons all those years ago?”

Llud shakes his head. “I don’t know. You are as a son to me … it was the first name that came to mind, and they were waiting for an answer. I didn’t want to make them suspicious, by thinking for too long.”

“The choice does not bode well.”

“You’re a fine one to criticise,” Conyn butts in. “Your reckless choice has led us here. You should have listened to older heads. I told you it was suicide to attack so near Cerdig’s lands.”

Arthur bites his lip. “Every day, Cerdig’s borders expand, and the Saxons take more and more of our territory, burning our forests down.” He glances around; his men look tired; resentful, and not just of the Saxons. “If we don’t get a victory soon, we’ll have nothing left to fight for.”

Llud shuffles closer. “The Gods know, there are only bad choices to be made.”

~~

As the others grumble amongst themselves, and Llud drifts off to sleep, Arthur thinks on the strange Saxon: the one who keeps staring at him … who brought them decent food, and kept the other guards in line … Cynric.

The name doesn’t suit him.

Having tested Cynric’s patience by trying to give Llud that chance, Arthur had braced himself for some rough handling from the tall Saxon. But when the time came, at last, for him to be untied, Cynric had come to him with a look, almost of regret; his hands were gentle, working at the knots. And when the other guards had gone, Cynric had loosened Llud’s ropes, so he could get some feeling in his hand.

Anger curdles in Arthur’s belly at himself, for feeling grateful to a Saxon. Why does Cynric have to be kind? If he were like the rest, it would be easier to hate him. 

But he doesn’t hate Cynric. Somehow, he can’t.

The touch of those long fingers on the insides of his wrists had made him shiver; made him feel weak, and when Cynric had freed his hands, rather than push him roughly towards the food, Cynric had just tapped him on the back … as if he were a friend.

And when it was time for the ropes to be tied once more, Arthur had felt his pulse quicken, waiting to feel those hands on him again.

Shame had coursed through him, making him blush.

It’s dark in here … no one could have seen.

~~


	2. Chapter 2

The other warriors are sitting round the fire-pit, bragging about the ambush, and how easily they won the day.

Cynric squats and warms his hands. “The Celts were greatly out-numbered. We had the advantage of surprise.”

Silence falls. Cynric feels every eye upon him. “All I mean to say, is that we should not get over-confident.” He rubs his palms together. “It was just one victory.”

“One, among many more to come.” Darnel raises his cup.

Every man else joins in the toast, so Cynric must do the same.

Then he gets up, and steps back from the fire. “Should we not find a way to live side by side with these Celts, instead of all this killing?”

Badulf scoffs. “You’re a fine one to talk. You killed more of ’em than any of us.”

“When I’m called upon to fight, I fight. But has anyone ever tried talking peace with them?”

Hengist barks out a laugh. “As well try to talk peace with a ravening wolf – or make friends with a bear.”

Cynric sighs. “They are not wild animals. They are men, like us.”

“Aagh, you’re too soft.” Hengist pokes at the fire with a branch, stirring up sparks. 

Darnel nods. “Far too soft.”

Cynric turns to walk away from this, but Darnel grabs his arm. “Too soft by half – and if you were my stepson, I’d beat that out of you.”

Cynric pulls free; Darnel takes hold of him again. “Too soft – just like your father.” 

Cynric finds his hands round Darnel’s throat. “What do you know of my father?”

“Halwende was weak.” The old warrior’s scarred face sneers back at him. “He couldn’t have kept that pretty little wife of his, even if he’d lived. And if Cerdig hadn’t gone after her, I would have.”

Cynric lets go, then hits him, hard, in the face; Darnel goes down, and Cynric falls upon him, fists pounding, yelling: “Don’t … you … speak about … my … mother!”

Hengist is trying to drag him off, but Cynric lashes out an elbow, catching him on the jaw, then turns on him, and –

“What’s going on?” Cerdig bellows.

All three of them look up, and see their leader’s rotund figure blocking the doorway.

Hengist backs off first. “Just breaking up a fight.” He dusts his hands together.

“A fight about what?”

“Nothing.” Darnel scrambles out from under Cynric.

“Cynric?” Cerdig looks at him.

“It was nothing.” Cynric gets up, and stands swaying on his feet. “I’ve had too much to drink. I picked a fight.”

Cerdig laughs heartily. “That’s my boy!” 

~~

Hengist follows him out, and grabs him by the arm.

“Cerdig – that boy you call your son is weak. He can’t control himself. He is not fit to lead. Why do you favour him over me? I am your blood – your sister’s son. This whelp is none of yours.”

“‘Whelp’, you say?” Cerdig feels his face go red. “Is it Cynric, of whom you speak?”

Hengist nods. “Who else?”

Cerdig turns on him. “I gave him that name, so use it, damn you! I swore to my Cearo, on her death-bed, that I would treat him as my own, and love him as my own. So don’t you try and –”

“‘Love him’, you say?” Hengist stares back defiantly. “As much as he loves the Celts?”

Cerdig scowls. “I’ll hear no more of this bile. Not tonight. I have a job for you. You’re to set out tomorrow for Arthur’s village, to negotiate the ransom for our prisoners. If – and only if – you come back with a good bargain, then, perhaps, we’ll speak of this again.”

Most of the men would rather he’d chosen Hengist as his heir, but he won’t change his mind. Somehow, he must change theirs.

~~

While Hengist is away, Cynric is left in sole command of those guarding the Celts. He keeps a close eye on them: as much for the Celts’ sake as … 

… who does he think he’s fooling? It’s for the sake of one prisoner – and one alone – he takes such care.

What is happening to him?

An outcast among his own people, yes, he has been lonely. Women fall into his lap like apples in an autumn gale; friends – he has none. But that cannot explain what Cynric feels for this dark-eyed man, with hair like midnight: feelings he cannot name.

He takes one of the village wenches who’s been chasing him for weeks. She’s slim, and dark-haired – for a Saxon. When he labours above her, it’s not her face he sees, and when he calls her name, and spills on her flat belly, another name echoes in his heart.

He can’t afford to let these feelings show. Already he sees the others looking at him with suspicion in their eyes. Hitting Hengist’s old ally has won him no friends either.

So, in the morning, though it grieves him to stay away, Cynric orders Badulf and Wulfstan, and an older warrior, Gimm – one of the few he trusts – to see to the prisoners. Meanwhile, Cynric lurks near the prison paddock, chopping wood, and straining to hear what’s going on. 

It gives him little comfort that he hears no words of protest, or cries of pain, while the guards are inside the hut, or when they take the prisoners out to the latrine.

But Kai is last again, and as he is crossing the field of mud, Cynric sees him glance around.

Perhaps Kai is looking for him …

Cynric has to bite his tongue, to stop himself from calling out a greeting. In any case – he tells himself – Kai is most likely seeking an escape.

When Badulf and Wulfstan emerge from the main hut for the last time, they’re laughing, and pushing each other, as if they have played a good joke. Gimm leaves them standing guard, and comes out of the enclosure, shaking his head.

Cynric wanders up to him. “Those Celtic dogs give you any trouble?” 

“No.” Gimm glances nervously at the other two, and hurries away.

Cynric looks across and sees that Badulf is studying him. He doesn’t know what it means, but he’s sure Wulfstan and Badulf are talking about him. He nods to them, then goes about his business.

~~

It stinks inside this hut. Arthur’s neck and shoulders ache, from hours spent with his hands behind his back. His clothes are still not dry.

The others fare no better; they’re becoming fractious – all but Rhys, and he is pale under his mop of red hair. He looks ill.

This morning, when the Saxons came, Cynric was not among them. In his absence, Badulf and Wulfstan took delight in adding more misery to their lives. The old man, Gimm, just shook his head when Badulf tied the ropes too tight; when Wulfstan pushed Gavyn’s face into the food.

From where he sits, Arthur can see the sun is high; there’s still no sign of Cynric. Has the handsome Saxon grown tired of looking out for them? Will he leave them to the mercy of these wretched men?

… leave him?

Arthur doesn’t want to believe it.

But surely he’s insane to allow himself this hope? Surely he imagined what he thought he saw in Cynric’s eyes? In all these years, no one he’s ever met has understood. How could he even think a Saxon …? And even if Cynric did … they are sworn enemies.

The pinch of disappointment in Arthur’s guts soon turns to a dull ache. 

~~

Cynric can’t concentrate. On the practice ground, one of the green young warriors nicks Cynric’s right arm with a dagger. Nothing serious, but Cynric cleans and binds the wound, then busies himself, helping at the forge.

He’d meant to stay away from the Celts till nightfall, but by midday, there are ants crawling beneath his skin, and he can wait no more. Hefting his axe, he strides up to Badulf and Wulfstan, lounging outside the hut.

“I’ll handle this lot, while you take your meal.”

They don’t protest. By now, they’re glad to let him take on this dull task.

Cynric pokes his head inside, and glances round at each of the Celts in turn.

Some stare back, resentful; others just look away.

Last of all, Cynric’s gaze meets Kai’s, and Cynric thinks he’s ready, but he’s wrong. Surely his exhalation must have been heard across the sea in Gaul. And did he see a look that mirrored his, fleeting across Kai’s face?

But Kai looks … ill. He’s shivering. Rhys, the red-haired man looks worse, shivering, but sweating too, although the hut is cold. 

“You sicken.” Cynric instantly feels foolish.

“We were sitting in wet clothes, all the first night and the next.” There’s a note of challenge in Kai’s voice.

“It shouldn’t be much longer. Hengist has gone to negotiate your ransoms.” Cynric blows out a breath. “If I were to bring a brazier in here, would you give your solemn oath not to try to burn through your ropes?”

“Yes,” Llud says loudly. “I vouch for all of us.”

Cynric had instinctively asked Kai, forgetting Llud’s their leader.

“You would accept the word of a Celt?” Kai asks him.

Cynric does not trust himself to reply, but fetches a brazier.

When he’s got it going, the Celts shuffle towards it.

That’s when Cynric sees how tight some of their ropes were tied this morning, after they were fed. Without a word, he kneels down behind Gavyn, and then Rhys, and loosens their ropes a little. Not a moment too soon; Rhys’ hands are clammy, and they’re turning blue.

Conyn tilts his head. “Oi! What about mine?” 

Cynric glances at his ropes: Gimm must have tied them: secure, but not too tight. Owen’s are the same. Cynric snorts. “Don’t push your luck.” He glances at Llud.

“Mine are alright, but …” Llud jerks his head towards Kai.

Kai gives him a blank look, and Cynric kneels on the ground behind him.

Kai’s ropes have been tied so tight, his fingers are swelling up. He’s rubbed his wrists raw, trying to loosen them.

As Cynric works on the knots, he feels himself shaking, both with rage and with desire. He wants to beat Badulf and Wulfstan’s faces to a pulp. He wants to take those sore wrists, and kiss them; to take this man, in his dark defiance and … he doesn’t know what he wants to do. Wrestle with him; struggle on the ground, and beat it out of him; get roaring drunk with him; save him; make him … 

Cynric glances at the faces of the Celts, and then looks outside the hut. Surely everyone – Saxon or Celt – must see these traitorous thoughts and feelings, lurking in his heart?

But he can’t put those ropes back on; not yet, while every touch on Kai’s raw flesh, however light, will hurt. He shoves Kai’s shoulder, harder than he meant. “I’ll leave you like this a while, if you’ll remain inside this hut, and not release anyone else. Give me your word.”

“You have it.” Kai flashes him a look of thanks. 

Cynric’s heart leaps. In rising, he nearly falls down on his arse; he manages to keep his feet, and backs out of the hut. “I’ll return soon.”

He goes and stands outside, and tries to get his breath.

~~

Arthur rubs his wrists and hands.

“Well?” Conyn hisses at him.

Arthur looks up. “Well, what?” 

“Well – aren’t you going to untie us? There’s just him guarding the hut. We could rush him. Get out of here.”

Llud knows what Arthur will say, so he pretends he hasn’t heard, although he feels the same.

Arthur shakes his head. “We’re unarmed, and in the heart of Saxon territory. They could kill us all, at any time, if we give them trouble. Let’s just see whether we’re ransomed, before we throw away the good will of this man.”

“Good will?” Conyn scoffs. “I saw him kill Brac – slashed him across the belly with that big axe of his. Good will, indeed.”

Arthur bites his lip. “That was in battle.” 

“‘You gave your word, and you won’t break it’,” Conyn sing-songs. “That’s what you mean. Well, I didn’t give mine. Come here, Owen – let’s see if we can make any headway on these ropes.”

“No!” Llud says loudly.

Cynric, his axe held in front of him, peers inside. “What’s going on?”

“Nothin’,” Conyn mumbles. “You won’t need that axe today.”

~~


	3. Chapter 3

As Hengist enters the Celts’ village under a flag of truce – his spear left buried, head-down, at the boundary line – suspicious eyes peer at him from behind door flaps. A few men come to meet him. They look more afraid of him than he feels, standing alone among his enemies.

He plants his feet. “I would speak with your leader.”

The Celts whisper among themselves, and nudge one another; a man with a straggly beard looks towards the longhouse. “Tugram! Someone fetch Tugram!”

“But this is Arthur’s village, is it not?” 

The Celts glance at each other.

“Of course.” A skinny youth gestures at the flag on the gate.

“Well, where is he?”

They shuffle their feet, but do not answer him.

A square-faced man comes out of the longhouse. “I am Tugram. I’m in command here, and I command you, speak!”

“I am Hengist. I come from Cerdig, with a list of captives for whose release a ransom must be paid.” Hengist unrolls the list of names. “I’m here to negotiate.”

“How many hostages?”

“Seven men in all.” Hengist brandishes the document. “But I thought to speak with Arthur, not his underlings.”

Tugram’s brow creases. “Arthur … left me in charge. Read me your list.” 

So Hengist tells the captives’ names, looking up after each one.

When the last name, ‘Kai’, is spoken, Tugram looks thoughtful. “No one else?”

“There are two horses – one black and one white. I do not know their names, but thanks to our leader’s chosen heir, they’ve not been killed. You may ransom them also. I think you Celts treat your horses like your wives.”

Metal scrapes against metal; some of the Celts move towards him, their swords drawn.

Tugram waves them back. “I meant, ‘no other men?’, as you well know.”

“Whom else did you expect? And where is Arthur?”

Tugram raises his chin. “Why would I tell you that? So you can mount another sneak attack, and take him, too?” 

Hengist shrugs. “If you have the authority, let us negotiate a ransom for these prisoners. Or shall Cerdig keep them as slaves, or have them killed?”

Tugram’s fist clenches on the hilt of his sword. “Come in, and we will talk.”

~~

When Hengist returns, Cerdig is waiting at the gate. “So … what’s he like – this ‘Arthur of the West’?”

Hengist looks puzzled. “I don’t know.”

“What?” Cerdig bristles. “Would he not receive you? Have you negotiated no terms?”

Cynric’s heart is in his mouth as he awaits the answer. What will become of Kai, if ransom is not paid? And yet, if it is paid, then Kai will leave; next time they meet, if ever they do again, it will be on the field of battle.

Hengist shakes his head. “I was tendered more courtesy than I offered, but Arthur was not there. I spoke to one named Tugram. We agreed the terms, if you will hear them.”

Cerdig looks doubtful. “Was this man, Tugram, empowered to negotiate on Arthur’s behalf?”

“He said so – though he looked as if that power sat ill upon him.”

“So where was Arthur?”

“He would not say – he cited reasons of security.”

Cerdig frowns. “Do you think, perhaps, Arthur was wounded in that ambush? Even killed?”

“Perhaps …” Hengist nods slowly. “All I know is that they seemed like a rudderless ship. I got better terms than even I expected. Cerdig, if there ever was a time to attack –”

“My lord Cerdig!” The armourer strides up to them, bearing a sword. “I’ve been taking stock of the weapons we took from the Celts. And look at this – the workmanship is very fine. Too fine for an ordinary warrior.”

Cerdig examines the sword. “Good enough for Arthur, himself.” He rubs his nose. “I wonder …”

Then Cerdig beckons Cynric over. “You know these prisoners well.”

Cynric’s stomach lurches. Surely, Cerdig cannot know? He shrugs. “They’re Celts – they all look the same to me.”

“Come, come!” Cerdig wags a finger. “That’s no way to learn about your enemy. Tell me – is there one among them who carries himself like a leader?”

A terrible suspicion creeps into Cynric’s mind; he tries to school his features. “Llud of the Silverhand is their leader.” 

“Yes …” Cerdig nods. “So he tells us.” 

Cynric spreads his hands. “Then this must be his sword.” 

“But what if it were not?” Cerdig says, scratching his belly. “Take Llud from the room, and who is left, who might yet lead them?”

Who can he implicate? Cynric frowns, thinking hard. “There’s one called Conyn – sometimes he dares challenge us.”

“Hmm …” Cerdig strokes his chin.

“Conyn!” Hengist spits upon the ground. “He’s not the one. Give me that sword!” He snatches it from Cerdig’s hand. “I’ll find out whether Arthur’s here or not.”

The others follow in his wake, as Hengist, sword in hand, strides to the prison hut. Once there, he goes inside, and says simply, “Arthur?”

A moment later, Hengist shoves Kai through the door, and comes out after him. He sets the sword point at Kai’s throat. “Here’s your famous Arthur.”

Kai is on his knees, in the mud. He looks up defiantly from under his dark mane.

“Doesn’t look much, does he?” Hengist kicks Kai in the guts.

Clenching his fist behind his back, Cynric swears bloody vengeance in his heart, as Kai lies curled up on his side, trying to get his breath.

Cerdig studies Kai, incomprehension on his face. “Can it be true? Are you really Arthur of the West?”

“Why … shouldn’t I be?” Kai chokes out.

“Hah! He asks, ‘why shouldn’t he be?’” Cerdig splutters. He turns a half-circle, sweeping his gaze around the crowd that’s come to see what’s going on, and then he roars with laughter, holding his sides. “Hengist – you fool! This stripling? Arthur of the West? The one they call ‘The Bear’?”

Hengist glowers. “I’m sure it’s him.” 

But Cerdig shakes his head. “Looks less like a bear than a yearling pup! Hengist – come on! You want me to believe _this_ is the man whose fearsome warriors have terrorised my people? Whose strategies have confounded, and laid us low? No. I won’t believe it. I can’t.”

“But Cerdig! When I said Arthur’s name, all eyes turned to this man!”

“That’s as may be.” Cerdig puts his hand on his axe haft, and looks around at the assembled Saxons once again, making sure he has their full attention. “If so, it is some trick. This is a decoy – and not a very good one, either. Perhaps one of the other men …”

Hengist’s eyes glitter. “Shall I interrogate them, then?”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Cerdig casts a shrewd glance at him. “Let me think on this. The real Arthur may, even now, be leading a force against us. Double the guard on our gates. And let no man in or out of this village after dark.”

He waves a hand at Kai. “Take this ‘Arthur’ of yours back to the rest.”

Hengist hauls Kai to his feet, shakes him, then drags him back into the prison hut.

Cynric’s worried gaze follows where he dare not go in person: not while Cerdig is around. He hears a yelp of pain, and takes just one step forward.

Then Hengist swaggers out. “Just a taste,” he calls out, over his shoulder. “You’ll get more of that, if you don’t tell the truth.” 

~~

When the others have dispersed, Cynric relieves the guard outside the hut. He stands there, debating with himself for a moment. When he looks inside, Llud is peering at a bloody wound on Kai’s cheek, but – seeing Cynric – he quickly sits up straight, and stares ahead of him. 

Cynric enters, and goes down to his haunches next to Kai. “I’m sorry. It does not befit a leader to be treated so.”

Kai looks up sharply. “Who says I’m a leader?” 

“Not me. Not to any outside this hut.”

Kai swallows. Llud keeps looking elsewhere. Some of the other prisoners exchange nervous glances.

There is blood trickling down Kai’s cheek from a cut near his right eye. Cynric gets up, dips the sleeve of his shirt into the water pail in the corner, wrings it dry, kneels beside Kai, and presses the clean cloth against the cut until the bleeding stops.

Then he leaves, without another word.

~~

Arthur watches Cynric go. Then he sees that Llud is watching him, a worried frown upon his face.

Llud shakes his head. “You do know, you can’t trust that Saxon, don’t you?”

“Of course.” Arthur jerks his head, flicking hair off his face. “But why do _you_ say so? Cynric has helped us, with no possible advantage for himself.”

“You’re young … you don’t understand.” Llud leans his head against the wall. “There’s more than one way to find out about your enemy. I know, because I’ve seen it before – done it myself, too. That man Cynric is trying to gain your confidence, so that you’ll let something slip.”

“I won’t.” There’s a lump in Arthur’s throat.

“You think so now, but this is just the start.” Llud smiles sadly. “This is how it goes. The ‘bad’ Saxon roughs you up a bit – softens you up, and then the ‘good’ Saxon pretends to be your friend. Tends your injuries, or gives you something that means a lot to you – warmth, or a little comfort – something that costs him nothing. Then they do it all over again. And then again. Sooner or later, you find yourself thinking that because the bad Saxon’s your enemy, the other one must be your friend. Before you know it, you’re telling him more than you meant to.”

“Well, I’m glad he brought that brazier,” Rhys cuts in. “Thought I was going to turn into a block of ice.”

“That’s just the point.” 

“Well, what should we do?” Rhys shuffles closer to the heat. “Tell him to take his brazier away? Ask him to tie us up a bit tighter?” 

“Of course not. Just remember – he’s the enemy.” Llud looks pointedly at Arthur. “Nothing he does is for our good. Only for his own.”

Arthur nods curtly; but he can’t … he just can’t – he won’t – believe it.

~~

Cynric is on watch tonight.

The others are asleep, but Arthur’s mind keeps going over what Llud said. Perhaps he can play this Saxon at his own game – convince Cynric that he’s his friend, and …

Who does he think he’s fooling? He wants to talk to Cynric, and he’s going to. He’s a captive already, and he’s on his guard. What harm can come of it?

Arthur gets to his feet, and goes to stand in the doorway. The night is cold; the moon hangs low in the sky, and huge.

Cynric has paced a few strides from the hut, and hasn’t noticed him.

“Hello.”

Cynric whips round, axe ready, but when he sees who’s there, he loosens his stance, nods, and starts back, in no particular hurry.

Arthur watches his approach. “You’re not like the other Saxons.”

Cynric cocks his head. “How so?” 

“When you’re on watch, you just stand there, silently.”

“What should I say? I thought you were asleep.”

“I was. Until Llud started snoring in my ear.”

Cynric chuckles. Torchlight dances on the shining surface of his eyes. His smile – so natural – robs Arthur of breath. Surely that can’t be false? 

They sway towards each other.

Cynric snorts, and looks away.

“Llud says, I should not trust you.” 

“Llud is right.” 

Arthur had expected … he doesn’t know what. Sudden anger, perhaps; a look of guilt, or shame. Not this – cold honesty. His throat is dry. “Why’s that?”

“I am a Saxon – Cerdig’s chosen heir. I should have to climb the highest mountain, and take on the dragons living at its peak, to earn the trust of any Celt.” Cynric sounds sad. “And as things stand, there’s precious little I can do for you. In any case, you will soon leave. What need of trust, when silver buys your freedom?”

“You helped us today. I thought my hands were going to drop off, before you freed me. And Rhys needed that warmth – all of us did.”

Cynric shrugs. “A dead prisoner can’t be ransomed.” 

“You can say that was your reason.” Arthur looks Cynric steadily in the eye. “I don’t have to believe you … if I don’t want to.” His heart starts thumping wildly in his throat; he has to look away.

“Turn around.” 

Arthur does as he is told, wondering what happens next. Then he feels Cynric’s hands untying him.

“There …” Cynric touches him lightly on the wrist. “Be easy for a while.”

“You have not made me promise –”

“No.” Cynric’s voice is deep and calm as the ocean. “But I have only to call for help …”

With a look of gratitude, Arthur turns back, then circles his shoulders; stretches, and shakes out his arms.

They both stand looking up at the night sky.

After a while, Cynric turns to him. “Do the Celts name the stars?”

“We learned the Romans’ names for them. See –” Arthur taps Cynric on the arm, then points towards the sky, tracing an outline. “That one there is called ‘The Great Bear.’”

He waits, to see whether Cynric will ask whether he really is Arthur: the one they call ‘The Bear.’

Cynric gives him an assessing look; Arthur feels sure that Cynric sees right through him.

“We Saxons call that one ‘The Great Wagon.’” Cynric heaves a sigh. “I don’t know how our peoples will ever be at peace, when we see the same thing, and call it by such different names …”

Arthur feels hope well up inside him. “What does a name matter? We were born under the same stars, you and I. So long as we don’t fight over what to call them, we will have peace one day.”

Cynric just stares at Arthur for a while, as if under a spell. Then he tilts his head, and laughs. “You can have peace, right now. I think the snoring’s stopped.”

Nevertheless, Arthur stays at Cynric’s side a little longer, before he turns to have his hands bound once again, and goes inside.

~~


	4. Chapter 4

The next morning, when Cynric emerges from his hut after just three hours’ sleep, there’s something going on in the prison paddock. He takes a few anxious, loping strides in that direction, but slows to a walk when he sees Cerdig among the crowd of onlookers.

Darnel and Hengist are hauling one of the prisoners out. It’s Gavyn.

The Celt takes one look at what they have prepared for him – the glowing brazier, and the white-hot iron – and starts to sweat and tremble. “Why are you pickin’ on me? What have I done?”

Darnel laughs. “No need to start bleating yet. Shut up, until we tell you.” He and Hengist set about tying Gavyn to a post.

Cynric leans against the fence, beside Cerdig, and calls out, “What’s all this? What’s going on?”

Darnel saunters over. “We’re going to find out what’s happened to Arthur. Whether he’s here, or not.” Then he leans closer, so Cerdig won’t hear what he says in Cynric’s ear: “Any objections, mummy’s boy?”

Cynric just stops himself from punching Darnel – again. Instead, he turns to Cerdig, and says, in a low voice: “Cerdig, this isn’t right.” 

A frown creases Cerdig’s brow. “What isn’t right?”

“What they are about to do. Torture a prisoner. It troubles me, Cerdig.”

“Oh, it troubles you, does it?” Cerdig puffs out his cheeks. “And you are the one who’s going to lead my people when I’m gone? A leader has to make hard decisions. If you can’t do that, after all I’ve –”

“But this will do no good!” Cynric slashes the air with his hand. “These cowardly Celts will say anything to spare themselves from pain. Still, we will not know which one of them is Arthur.”

Cerdig folds his arms. “Well, if Arthur is among them, as you and Hengist seem to think, perhaps we should just kill them all.”

“What?” Cynric feels the blood drain from his face. “No …”

“You need to decide whose side you’re on, lad. No son of mine can be soft on our enemies.”

And even after all these years, and though he’s a grown man, and never asked to be his son, Cynric still feels a knot of fear tighten in his guts when Cerdig’s voice takes on that tone. “Cerdig … I killed three Celts in our latest battle. But this –”

A scream pierces the air; Cynric grips the rail, and turns to see a savage burn blistering Gavyn’s stomach.

Hengist thrusts the iron back in among the burning coals. “Now, tell us where Arthur is!”

“I don’t know,” Gavyn whimpers. “I don’t know.”

Kai stumbles from the hut. “Stop this! Leave him alone. It’s me. I’m Arthur.”

“Is it true?” Hengist brands Gavyn again, this time upon his chest.

“Yes!” Gavyn cries out. “Yes, yes, it’s him. It’s Arthur. Please … no more …” He looks helplessly at Arthur, then he hangs his head.

“There! I told you!” Hengist throws the iron on the ground in front of Cerdig; it sizzles in the mud.

“I don’t know …” Cerdig shakes his head. “This could still be some ruse – a lie given substance by the pain it took to wring it from this man.”

Arthur steps toward Cerdig. “Why will you not believe me? I am Arthur of the West. Ask Llud! Ask any of these men. Release me, and put a sword in my hand, and I will prove it upon the body of any champion you put up against me.”

Cerdig gestures to Hengist. “Bring that sword.”

Hengist looks at Cerdig, as at a madman. “Surely you’ll not put a sword in Arthur’s hand?”

Cerdig considers. “Well, perhaps not … When is the ransom to be paid?”

“They asked three days to collect the amount together.”

Cerdig nods. “Then I still have two days to think on what is to be done with this so-called ‘Arthur of the West.’ Return the prisoners to the hut for now. And have another built. I want ‘Arthur’ separated from the rest.” He points at the brazier. “Now douse that thing, and put your toys away.”

~~

Gathering what courage he can, Cynric follows Cerdig as he walks away. “What did you mean by saying you have two days to decide what to do with Arthur? What about the ransom Hengist negotiated?”

Cerdig stops in his tracks, and faces him. “If I really have the leader of this Celtic rabble in my hands, I can’t just set him free, like a common prisoner. Not after the trouble he’s caused us.”

“But I told the prisoners, in good faith, that all would be ransomed. All.” Cynric swallows. He’s treading on thin ice. “Would you make a liar of me?”

“You did what?” Cerdig stares at him. “You had no business telling them anything at all. In any case, they lied first. They hid his name from us – negotiated in bad faith.” He gives Cynric a calculating look. “I may yet accept a ransom for Arthur. But if I do, it will not be for the same amount as for an ordinary man.”

He turns to walk away, as if this no longer holds his interest; Cynric pulls him back. “And if they can’t pay – we’ll keep him here – a prisoner?”

“Don’t be a fool. That would make this village a target. The Celts would be forever trying to free him.”

Cynric feels a chill touch his heart. “Then what?” He knows already, but he doesn’t want to hear.

“What do you think?” Cerdig watches his face.

Cynric turns away. “You … we cannot execute their leader. What? Make a martyr of him? If we do, there will never be peace.” 

“That’s your only concern?”

Cynric masters his expression, and faces him again. “Of course.”

“Good …” Cerdig nods. “When I come to a decision, it will be your future, and that of all our people, that I have in mind.”

~~

It’s dark. Cynric is on guard once more. Darnel stands outside the larger hut, and Cynric outside a smaller one that has been built for Kai.

No: not ‘Kai’ – the cry of a bird of prey – but ‘Arthur’, his name, a gentle exhalation. How to say that name without reverence; without giving up something of oneself in a breath …

Cynric stares fixedly ahead, while Darnel watches him. Watches, that is, until he falls asleep where he stands, leaning against the hut. Cynric starts to feel his own eyelids drooping.

“Cynric?”

He nearly jumps out of his skin. It’s Arthur’s quiet voice he heard behind him. When he has caught his breath, he says, just as softly: “Yes …” 

“What is the ‘Blood Eagle’?”

Cynric shudders. “”Where did you hear of that?”

“The guards were talking about what will be done to us, if ransom is not paid. I heard them say these words.”

Cynric turns to face Arthur. “Pay them no mind. The Blood Eagle has not been done for many years. Not since I was a boy …” 

The screams still haunt him … the horrible sight.

“What is it?”

“What is what?”

“The Blood Eagle – what is it?”

Cynric shakes his head. “I do not wish to speak of it. They will not –” 

By the stars, he hopes that they will not …

“Please …” Arthur looks intently at him.

Cynric looks away. “It shames me that my people ever did such things.”

Arthur gives a nervous laugh. “Now I have to know. My imaginings will be worse.”

“No. They will not. But I will tell you, since you have asked me thrice.”

Cynric takes a breath, steeling himself. “A man is stripped, and tied to a tree, facing the trunk. Then the flesh is cut, down the middle of his back.” Cynric glances at Arthur.

In a small voice, Arthur says, “Go on.”

“And then his ribs are broken from his spine, and pulled apart, so that they seem like bloody wings.”

Arthur bites his lip. His face is paler than the moon. “And … is there more …?”

“If he is lucky, he’s already dead. But then, whether he lives or no, the lungs are pulled out of his body.”

Arthur looks as if he might be sick. “And you have seen this?”

Cynric nods. He can still hear the cries for mercy; for a killing blow. “Do not be afraid. They will not do this to you.”

He prays to every god of whom he ever heard, that what he says is true, but still, he hears the tremor in his own voice: the doubt. Hoping the repetition makes it so, he says: “You’ll be ransomed, and returned home.”

Arthur looks unconvinced. “It was a Celt you saw being tortured so?”

“No – one of our own. Branded a traitor, though they had no proof. He was a friend of my father.”

“Of Cerdig?”

“Cerdig is not my father.” Cynric spits out the words – but it’s not Arthur’s fault. “Cerdig killed my real father, Halwende, in a challenge, when I was six summers old. Three weeks later, my mother married Cerdig.” He sniffs. “I don’t know why she did that … how she could take that man to her … after he …” 

Arthur takes a step towards him. “Perhaps she was afraid ... protecting you.”

Cynric blinks. “Perhaps. I never asked. I was so angry, and afraid. I could not forgive her. Two years later, she was taken by the flux.”

“I lost my mother too,” Arthur says sadly. “I was twelve.”

“How did she –?”

“Truly? I think it was a broken heart. She missed my father so …”

“I’m sorry.”

Cynric can feel Arthur’s breath, warm, upon his neck. He wants to take Arthur in his arms; comfort him … and take some comfort, too, but he cannot; must not. He knows what happens to traitors – so he takes a step away, out of temptation’s reach.

“But Cerdig treats me well ... now, at least. To him, I am his son in all but blood.” He shrugs. “I don’t understand it. Cerdig even gave me his father’s name. I am his heir.”

“What if he takes another wife, and she bears him a son?”

“He will not,” Cynric says firmly. “For all that he killed my father, I think Cerdig truly loved my mother.”

“Before he changed your name, what were you called?”

“I was called Brett.”

“‘Brett’,” Arthur says, rolling it on his tongue. “That doesn’t suit you, either.”

~~

When Arthur lies down to sleep, Cynric is left alone, with his memories.

After his mother died, he ran wild in the woods. Three days it was, till Cerdig found him, hiding in a cave; dragged him home, screaming and kicking, and beat him till he stopped.

‘You’re my son now!’ ‘How dare you run away!’ ‘Ungrateful brat!’ ‘You little traitor!’ and – worst of all – ‘What would your mother say, if she were here?’

It was the same next time, and the next, till he was sore from beatings. In between times, Cerdig tried to win him over; treats and attention, the best clothes, the best weapons.

Still, he ran.

Until his tenth summer, when Cerdig made him watch as he ripped Alden apart, and tore his lungs out of his back: that’s when Cynric lost the will to run away.

Since then, he’s played the dutiful son and heir, and Cerdig doesn’t see that it’s an act.

But even now, Cynric feels the sting of Cerdig’s belt in every disapproving word; each suspicious glance is the shiver of a knife-blade down his back.

~~


	5. Chapter 5

It’s Owen who says what most of them are thinking. “What if they ask for a bigger ransom, now they know it’s Arthur?”

Llud clears his throat. “There’s no reason to suppose –”

“But you said yourself, Llud – they weren’t supposed to find out. And now they have.”

Conyn looks round at the others. “They might take the whole lot, just for our glorious leader.”

“Show some respect!” Llud says sharply.

“But he might be right.” Rhys’ face creases with misery. “What if they do? Where will that leave us?”

Dafydd pipes up, “I’ll never get home to see me mam, and then what will she say?”

“Shhhh.” Llud glances towards the doorway. “Do you want the Saxons to think we’re a bunch of ninnies?”

Dafydd and Rhys glance at each other, shame-faced, but Gavyn mutters, “I don’t care what those bastards think. I just wanna go home.”

Llud frowns. “Calm down, will you?”

Panic won’t do them any good, but Llud feels far from calm himself. Should they be trying to escape, rather than just waiting to be ransomed? And what would happen to the rest, if some, but not all of them, were to get free? Now they’ve been split up, it’s even more impossible to plan.

If only Arthur hadn’t put such faith in that Saxon …

“Done it,” Owen whispers. He gets to his feet. “I’m free.”

“Hey!” Conyn looks up at him. “I was the one what got you free. Now, what about my ropes?”

“I’m the best runner out of all of us. If I can get to our village, tell them the lie of the land –”

“Oh, no you don’t!” Conyn struggles to his knees. “Best runner is right. Best at running away, and leaving your friends in the –” 

Wulfstan puts his head inside. “Hey! What’s going on?” 

Owen glances around, then dives past Wulfstan, through the doorway.

“Hey!” Wulfstan shouts. “Darnel! A Celt’s loose! Catch him!”

Llud sees Darnel raising his axe, and leaping towards Owen. Then Cynric appears, and grabs Darnel’s axe-arm. “No! The boy’s unarmed!”

Owen turns and runs – straight onto Badulf’s dagger. He sags, and drops to the ground. Blood bubbles from the corner of his mouth. He chokes; tries to say something, but the light dies from his eyes.

Arthur sees it too. His eyes meet Llud’s, then both must turn away.

~~

As Cerdig tucks into his midday meal, someone appears before him. Cerdig heaves a sigh. “What now, Hengist? I suppose, as usual, you’ve come to improve my digestion?”

“Er …” Hengist looks confused. “I come with news.”

Cerdig rolls his eyes. “Well – spit it out! What’s happened?”

“One of the Celts got free, and Badulf killed him.”

Cerdig looks up sharply. “It better not be Arthur.”

“No – the pasty-faced one with long legs. Owen, I think. And Cynric would have let him get away! ‘Oh, don’t hurt him,’ he says. ‘The poor boy’s unarmed.’”

“He’s right. You should have tried to catch him first. An unarmed Celt couldn’t have got far in the middle of our territory.” Cerdig puffs out a breath. “Bit of a waste to kill him.”

Hengist takes a step back, and spreads his hands. “We had to! What were we supposed to do? Leave a Celt, loose in our village, with our wives and children? Surely, Cerdig, even you can see that Cynric’s bleeding heart is going to get someone killed one day.” Hengist paces the room. “My men saw what happened, and they’re angry.”

“Your men are always angry, Hengist,” Cerdig rumbles. “What do you do, to make them so choleric?”

“It’s not anything I’ve done. It’s Cynric.” Hengist leans across the table, and beckons, as if about to impart secret wisdom. “They say, when the time comes … When you’re … you know. Well, they say they won’t obey Cynric’s commands, unless he’s proved himself a proper Saxon.”

Ready to explode, Cerdig rises from his seat.

Hengist holds up a pacifying hand. “Don’t get me wrong. They’ll follow _you_ anywhere, my lord. But Cynric is storing up trouble. They won’t follow him. Not when you’re gone.”

Cerdig clenches his fists, then drops them to his sides. “Aargh … go away Hengist.” He sits back down, picks up a chicken leg, and waves it at him. “You give me a bellyache.”

~~

Later that day, a messenger arrives with news from the Celts: the ransom’s been assembled. Cerdig’s men prepare to meet Arthur’s, at the Giant Stair.

Cynric watches as the hostages – Llud, grim-faced; most of the rest, just glad to be alive, and eager to be gone – are loaded into the wagon once again.

Cerdig’s no fool; he won’t be left outnumbered after the prisoners are exchanged, so Tugram’s to bring just two Celts with him; Cerdig, nine Saxons. Cynric will be one of them. He volunteered, thinking it would be his last chance to see Arthur, only to find that Arthur’s to be left behind.

He doesn’t want to leave him – but it would arouse suspicion if he changed his mind. He won’t be gone long. Surely nothing will happen to Arthur while he is away?

His stomach churns as they leave the village for the meeting place. 

~~

So … as Arthur expected, he is not to be part of the exchange.

As he watches the others climb into the wagon, Arthur’s heart aches for his village, and his back, for his own bed. Yet he is glad that they, at least, are going home.

Llud takes a last look towards him, and, for a moment, can’t hide his grief at leaving him behind; and then Llud steels himself, nods, and gets into the wagon.

Cynric and Hengist are going with Cerdig to collect the ransom; Arthur is left with Darnel and Badulf guarding him.

Before long, a crowd begins to gather round the prison paddock. A young boy, leaning on the fence, calls out, “Can we have a look at Arthur?” 

“Yeah, show us,” another shouts. “We haven’t seen him yet.”

“You’ll see him soon enough,” Badulf replies.

Darnel grins. “A lot more of him than you can see now.”

Arthur’s stomach turns over.

“Go on!” another child says. “Let us!”

“Oh, alright then.” Darnel peers into the hut. “You’d better behave yourself.”

What Darnel expects him to do, bound and – now – hobbled, as he is, Arthur doesn’t know. He keeps his face carefully blank.

“Alright then,” Darnel calls out. “One at a time.”

Soon, a small blond boy appears in the doorway, one hand held behind his back. “You’re Arthur?” 

“Yes.”

“Arthur of the West?”

Arthur nods.

A grin cracks the child’s face. “Take that, Arthur of the West!”

A rotten apple hits Arthur on the chest; the boy runs off.

Darnel and Badulf exchange a glance.

Badulf winks, and turns to the waiting crowd. “Who’s next? Come on! Penny a throw!”

~~

They reach the Stair, to find Tugram and the others waiting.

Cerdig looks across the water, and bellows: “You will send each man’s ransom across. It will be checked. Then we will send that man to you. Is that agreed?”

“Just one at time?” Tugram calls back.

“One at a time,” Cerdig confirms. “That way, if one of us decides to cheat the other, neither of us loses all.”

Tugram consults with the others, and then nods. “That makes sense. It’s agreed.”

“Then send the ransom for the one named Rhys.”

“Let’s see him.” 

Rhys is pushed forward.

Tugram counts some silver pieces from a pouch, gives them to one of the Celts, and sends him to meet Cerdig’s man halfway. The ransom is checked, then Rhys is shoved in the back, and starts to make his way across.

Cynric sees him sag with relief as he reaches the Celtic side, and when his bonds are cut, Rhys runs to speak to Tugram. But Tugram holds up a hand to silence him, and he subsides.

“Next, the ransom for Conyn,” Cerdig shouts.

And so it goes on, with silver, hides, and furs being exchanged for Celtic lives.

At last, Conyn, Dafydd and Gavyn stand with Rhys.

“Now send the ransom for your elder statesman, Llud of the Silver Hand.” 

“First, show me Llud, alive,” Tugram demands.

Llud is pushed towards the edge of the Stair. He is shaking his head, and making faces; Cynric can see, Llud doesn’t want to go. Perhaps he thinks that if the highest ransom’s paid for him, there won’t be enough left, should Cerdig demand a larger sum for Arthur. 

Tugram looks puzzled, but still, he sends the ransom across.

While Llud is on the way to join the Celts, Tugram calls out: “What about the other two men?”

Cerdig shakes his head. “Owen was a fool. He tried to get away, thus saving you his ransom money.”

“You killed him.” Tugram clenches his fists. “And … Kai?”

Cerdig strokes his moustache. “We’ve no one of that name held prisoner.” 

“But your messenger said –”

Llud reaches Tugram, and says something vehemently in his ear.

Tugram’s face falls; Cynric knows how he feels. 

“We have a man named ‘Arthur of the West’.” Cerdig rocks on his heels, as if he can’t contain his glee. “But all the silver in the land will not pay that man’s ransom.”

Tugram’s face is stone. “And our two horses?”

Cerdig pats his belly. “I think we’ll keep those for the feast.” He turns to Hengist. “Guard our rear.” Then he and the other Saxons turn and leave.

~~

“Bastards!” Tugram throws his dagger; it lands buried in the ground. “They still have Arthur! We must go after them, and mount a rescue.”

Llud shakes his head. “How can we hope to rescue Arthur now? There are just eight of us, only three with horse.”

“I’m no fool.” Tugram points to the east. “I left a man with seven horses, not a mile from here, so that you would not have to walk back to the village.”

“Even so … we can’t attack Cerdig’s camp with any hope of winning. Not with so few men. We must go and get reinforcements, if we’re to stand a chance.”

“But what about Arthur?” Tugram’s face goes red. “You want to leave him at the mercy of –”

“No! I don’t want to leave my son alone in the Saxon camp!” Llud roars, with blistering fury. “You think I don’t want to save him? My own son? But he won’t thank us for getting more men killed, only to fail.”

He hopes – though he doesn’t say so – hopes with all his heart that he was wrong; that there is one man in the Saxon camp who might keep his Arthur safe from harm. 

~~

Cynric comes level with Cerdig. “So – there’s to be a feast? What are we celebrating?”

“Ah … yes.” Cerdig gives him a speculative look. “We’ll speak of this when we get back. Alone.”

~~


	6. Chapter 6

“Alright! Game’s over!” Darnel turns to Badulf. “You can get off now.”

Badulf jingles a handful of coins. “Nice workin’ with you!” He grins, and ambles off.

But the crowd doesn’t seem ready to disperse. Darnel gestures at them. “Haven’t you lot got homes to go to?”

A ragged little girl, with no front teeth, runs up to Darnel. “What about me?”

Darnel puts his hands on his hips, and scowls ferociously. “You’re too late.”

“But Kerri’s head fell off.” She holds up a wooden doll. “I had to find it, first. He wants to see me throw something at Arthur.”

“Oh, go on then.” Darnel tousles her hair. “But you’re the last one. Got your penny?”

She shakes her head sadly.

Darnel heaves a sigh and rolls his eyes. “Go on with you!” He pushes her through the doorway.

Her eyes widen as they meet Arthur’s.

Arthur drives her back two steps with the sheer force of his hatred; makes her throw before she’s ready. An old beet lands, well short, with a soft thump. 

He says, “You missed.” Such small victories are all that’s left.

The girl’s lower lip quivers. Tears well up in her blue eyes.

“Aw!” Darnel says. “Want me to throw it at the nasty man for you, darling?”

She nods.

Darnel picks up the beet and throws it, straight and hard, at Arthur’s head. It splatters, covering his face with stinking pulp.

“That’ll teach him to be mean to you, won’t it?”

The girl laughs, and runs away.

Tears of rage well up in Arthur’s eyes, but he won’t let them fall. He tries, without success, to rub the putrid stuff off his face, against his shoulder. He’s ready to kill every Saxon in the land – man, woman and child alike – with his bare hands. He hates them with a fiery passion. All of them.

Yes, even Cynric: he can burn in hell – for leaving him here, alone. The Saxons mean to kill him: Arthur knows it now. And Cynric, damn him, won’t do a thing to stop them. Why should he, anyway?

Now the onlookers have gone, Darnel comes in, and draws a short, sharp knife.

Arthur’s heart starts to hammer in his throat. Surely death can’t come so soon – at Darnel’s blade, inside this rancid hut?

“Well then, Arthur, King of the Celts.” Darnel puts his face right in front of Arthur. “See this?” He points to the scar on his right cheek.

“I see it.”

“That’s what a Celt did to me, when I was in your place. I’d like to give you one the same.”

Arthur tries to shuffle backwards, but he’s already against the wall.

“Be doing you a favour – girls like a scar.” Darnel strops his knife against his breeches. “Not that you’ll be meeting any more of _them_.” He sniffs the air. “By the gods, you stink. Did you know – you’re covered in shit?”

Something boils up inside Arthur; he kicks out with both feet, catching Darnel on the ankle.

Darnel crashes to the ground, but quickly gets up, snarling, and sets his knife at Arthur’s throat. “Do that again, and Cerdig’s plans can go to hell – you’re dead, right here, right now.”

Arthur looks him in the eye. “So … what are these great plans of Cerdig’s?”

Darnel shakes his head. “Uh-uh. You’ll see. But I don’t think he’ll mind if I give you a little haircut, to make you presentable to the other chiefs.” 

Arthur jerks his head away. “No …”

Since his mother died, he’s hated anyone cutting his hair. Even with Llud, he’d scream blue murder. Screaming won’t help him now.

Darnel kneels behind him, grabs him by the hair, and cuts, and cuts.

A helpless rage floods through him. Soon, he can feel a cold draught on his neck, and bits of hair down his back, making him itch, as Darnel tugs his head this way and that, hacking and tearing.

He tries to squirm free.

Darnel gets up, and kicks him in the ribs till he lies still, then kneels behind his head, and cuts some more, even closer to the scalp.

Arthur wants to shut his eyes, so he can’t see Darnel grinning down on him, but that would be yet one more defeat, so he returns Darnel’s gaze with one of fury.

Until, at last, it’s over.

“Very pretty.” Darnel runs his fingers over what’s left of Arthur’s hair.

Arthur shudders.

Then Darnel pats his cheek, gets up, and leaves him be. 

Arthur looks down at the pathetic little strands of black, lying in the dirt, and – for no reason he can fathom – this is what breaks him. One rasping sob is followed by another; then he closes up his throat and lets the silent tears join his shorn locks upon the muddy ground.

~~

They are alone in Cerdig’s hall.

“Sit down, lad.”

Cynric sits at the long table. Cerdig pours him a mug of ale, and Cynric takes a drink. His hand is shaking.

Cerdig gives him a piercing look. “You understand why I want you to do this, don’t you?”

Cynric wants to say ‘because you hate me’, though he knows that isn’t true. Instead he manages to get some words out, round the lump in his throat. “This is a great honour you have bestowed upon me, Cerdig. I cannot imagine what I have done to merit it.”

“Ah, brave lad …” Cerdig’s hand lands on Cynric’s shoulder. “You think I don’t see how you feel?”

Cynric’s heart falters. “I … don’t know what you mean.”

“You feel sorry for the prisoners.”

“No!” Cynric almost shouts. He casts his eyes down. “No. I brought them food and warmth, because if they’d got sick, they could have spread contagion –”

“What about the one who escaped?”

“Cerdig – all I wanted was to make sure they all survived. Ransoms are not paid for dead men.”

But Cerdig shakes his head. “I don’t blame you, my son. You’re like your mother – a most sensitive soul. I loved her for that. But it could be your undoing.”

“How so?” Cynric says coldly.

“Do you not see how Hengist, and Darnel, and their ilk already snap at your heels like dogs, waiting to move in for the kill?”

Cynric can see Cerdig is deadly serious. He nods.

“I won’t be here forever, at your back. And when I’m gone, if that lot think you’re weak, they’ll fall upon you, and tear you to shreds. I would not have that happen for all the silver in the land.” Cerdig sits down next to him. “ _That_ is why I have chosen you, to make the Blood Eagle rise in glory from Arthur of the West.”

“I … I don’t think I can do it.” Cynric looks urgently at Cerdig. “Please, don’t make me, Father …”

He’s never called Cerdig ‘Father’ before; it tastes like poison in his mouth, but Cerdig’s face – the face of the man who murdered his real father – softens, just as he’d hoped it would. 

“I know.” Cerdig pats him on the back. “The Blood Eagle is brutal. But once your enemies see that you’ve the stomach for it, they’ll think twice about challenging you, lest they suffer the same fate. Why do you think I did it?”

Cynric is silent.

“I suppose you think I enjoyed it? No … I hated every minute. But Alden challenged me, as Hengist will challenge you. And so, for your sake, as your father and your commander, I’m going to insist you do this.”

“When?” Cynric’s stomach feels hollow.

“In two or three days. I must send word to the other chiefs, so they can bear witness. On that day, I will confirm you as my successor, with due ceremony, and by this act of sacrifice, you will prove yourself worthy to lead your people. That way, when I am gone, should you face opposition from within, the other chiefs will back you up.”

Cynric dreads the day when he will have to lead. He tries to keep the panic from his voice. “I understand.”

He turns away; his mind in turmoil. He can’t do this. But if he should refuse, Cerdig will lose face, Arthur will still be killed, and he, Cynric, will be shamed before his people, and cast out – or suffer the same fate.

He must help Arthur get away, and when he does, he, too, must leave this place: the only home he knows. Even if he were allowed to live, after giving aid to the enemy, he’d lose his place, and he won’t follow Hengist.

But Arthur … this man, he’d follow till his feet were raw.

Would Arthur’s people take him in?

Cerdig is still talking.

“… hard on you, Cynric, my boy, so I won’t expect you to help guard this prisoner again.”

“No!” Cynric turns to face him. “Leave me on watch. If, as you say, it will be hard, then I must learn to bear it. I must learn to be a good leader – just like you are.”

Cerdig beams with pride.

~~


	7. Chapter 7

At last, Cynric is allowed to get away; he heads straight for the prison hut.

Darnel, lounging outside, jerks his chin at him. “What’s up with you? You look like a dog who’s lost his bone.”

Cynric shrugs. “I’ve come to relieve you – that’s all.”

“About time, too.”

“Why? Did the prisoner … give you any trouble?”

“Not likely.” Darnel tosses a jingling pouch from hand to hand. “Made a tidy profit out of him.”

“You –?” Horrible images flood Cynric’s mind. He swallows.

Darnel just smirks, and slouches off. 

His heart beating wildly, Cynric watches till he’s out of sight. Only then does he dare look inside the hut.

Arthur is backed up against the wall; he’s filthy, and he stinks. He’s been pelted with rotten food, and cattle dung; even a few stones lie round about him. And his hair … oh, no … his hair … it has been roughly hacked; what’s left stands out at all angles from his head.

Arthur turns dull eyes upon him. “I suppose I’m to be killed.”

Cynric does not reply. He wants to tell Arthur that he’ll save him – but he doesn’t yet know how it’s to be done. The gates are guarded, night and day, and he is but one man. 

“How long have I got?” Arthur says blankly.

“Two or three days.” Cynric can’t confess what Cerdig has demanded of him.

“May I at least have water, to wash off this filth?”

With all the other prisoners gone, anything Cynric does – any concern he shows – for this one man will look exactly like the thing it is. But how can he leave Arthur like this?

“I’ll see what I can do.”

He spots Gimm passing by, and waves him over. “I need a change of clothes, but I can’t leave my post here. Could you bring me a shirt and some breeches from my hut?”

Gimm grunts, and nods.

“And a bowl of warm water, and a washcloth.”

“Come ’ome an’ I’ll keep you!” 

In a few moments, Gimm brings the things Cynric requested.

Cynric takes them inside. “Here – let me untie your hands.” 

Arthur turns his back. “You told me they would not perform the Blood Eagle.”

Cynric freezes. “How did you –?”

Arthur lets out a bitter laugh. “So … I was right.”

Cynric curses himself.

Arthur lowers his voice. “When you go, if you were to leave my hands but loosely tied –”

“You’d be killed in minutes.”

“Please …” Arthur says, low and urgent. “My people need me.” 

“If I _can_ save you, it won’t be for their sake.”

Cynric tugs the rope free, then stands in the doorway; Arthur positions himself in a corner, out of sight of anyone but him.

He hasn’t turned his back, so Cynric allows himself to watch, as Arthur strips off his tunic: keeping an eye on the prisoner, nothing more … noting the swift economy of Arthur’s movements, as he washes first his face, and then his upper body, then his hair.

The leader of the Celts is thin ... too thin; he’s had a hard life. And he’s covered in fresh bruises.

“Darnel did that?”

Arthur looks up, and nods. “Most of it.”

“Was that all …?” Cynric’s fists clench. “I mean, did he –”

“He didn’t violate me, if that’s what you’re asking.” Arthur’s mouth twists in a bitter smile. “Just give him time.”

“I’ll kill him, if he tries.”

Arthur gives him a sharp, speculative look. Then he starts to put on Cynric’s shirt.

Cynric stares, as the soft leather that only yesterday lay against his own skin, now clothes Arthur’s spare frame, caressing his neat nipples, as it slides down to hide them from his gaze. Cynric adjusts himself. 

“May I?” 

“What?” Cynric flushes. “May you –?”

Arthur is pointing at the rope around his ankles.

Cynric nods; he doesn’t trust himself to speak.

Arthur unties the rope, unselfconsciously strips off his breeches, and starts to wash himself; before Cynric can tear his gaze away, he gets a glimpse of pale thigh, a dark nest of hair, and Arthur’s cock – nothing huge but gods, how he wants to …

“What’s so fascinating?” Badulf is leaning over the fence, watching him. “You look like you’re in love.”

“Just … keeping an eye on the prisoner, that’s all,” Cynric calls back, across the field of mud. 

Already, they suspect; Cynric turns to Arthur. “Hurry up, will you?”

Arthur looks disconcerted at his sudden change in tone. He pulls on Cynric’s breeches, and – this time – wary of Badulf’s scrutiny, Cynric keeps his mind elsewhere. He points at Arthur’s boots. “And those.”

Arthur quickly puts them on.

Cynric goes in; as he binds Arthur’s hands again, he says, in a low voice: “Forgive me.”

“For what?”

Cynric makes no answer. “This hut stinks,” he calls out to Badulf. “Might as well move him back to the larger one.”

“Oh, by all means, give our guest the luxury accommodation.” Badulf makes a sweeping gesture.

“Come on.” Cynric give Arthur a shove. “You’re being moved.”

Arthur gives him an uncertain look, but Cynric keeps his face hard. Arthur bites his lip, and starts across the paddock.

Cynric follows; he turns to wink at Badulf. Then, when Arthur has nearly reached the larger hut, Cynric nudges him in the back – not hard, but just enough to make him trip, and fall face-first in the mud.

“Clumsy Celt.” Cynric shakes his head.

Badulf stares; then his face cracks open in a grin. “Now you’re gettin’ it!” 

Arthur rolls onto his side, and – for a brief moment – turns a look of sickening despair upon Cynric. Then his face goes blank.

Scuffing his foot on the ground to lessen the impact, Cynric lands a kick. “Get up!” 

Arthur stumbles to his feet, and goes inside, without once looking at him.

~~

Arthur sits on the ground, head on his knees.

His hope is gone.

Was any of it real?

No … Llud was right. This Saxon has been toying with him the whole time. The food, the brazier; the concern, their little midnight chats – all just a game.

And though he had been warned, he fell for it.

He fell so hard.

Somehow, this Saxon devil knew exactly how to hurt him most.

And now … he’s going to die.

He’s going to die in agony, and that bastard’s going to stand and watch; most likely enjoy it, laughing with his friends; telling them how he led Arthur of the West by the nose, to slaughter.

Arthur sniffs.

At least he no longer stinks of shit … and no one seems to have noticed that his feet aren’t tied.

Perhaps Cynric …?

No.

He won’t let himself be tricked again.

He is alone; no one will help him, but himself. So, as the night wears on, rather than contemplate his shame, Arthur tries to loosen the ropes that bind his hands. There’s nothing else to do.

But his guards – Wulfstan, and a man whose name he doesn’t know – are young and anxious. Every now and then, they come into the hut, both with their axes ready, check his ropes, and tie them tighter, whether he’s managed to loosen them or not. 

As the night grows old, Arthur recalls that Cynric said: ‘Forgive me.’ What did he mean? Did he mean anything at all? Or was that just another cruel strand in his web?

The night is cold, and he’s a fool.

Perhaps his people will be better off when he is gone.

~~


	8. Chapter 8

Tonight, around the fire, Cynric finds things very different. Badulf moves aside when he comes in, making room for him in a warm spot. Now and then, the others glance at him with wary approval.

“So!” Hengist slaps his thighs. “Your hour approaches!”

Cynric’s stomach starts to churn. 

“Have to look your best. Chiefs’ll start arriving tomorrow. Lot of hoohah.” Hengist grins wryly. “That, I don’t envy you. Then, the next day, before the feast …”

Badulf grins. “I hope you’ve got a good sharp blade.” 

“Nah – don’t want it to be too quick.” Darnel scratches his crotch. “Want to hear him scream, don’t we? The little Celtic shit.”

“Oh, he’ll scream alright,” Badulf says, chuckling. “Who wouldn’t?”

“Yeah, but it seems a shame just to kill him, without …” Darnel nudges Hengist in the ribs. “You know ...”

A slow smile spreads across Hengist’s face. “Imagine – telling those filthy Celts you’d fucked their glorious leader up the arse, before you split him open.”

“Why not?” Badulf growls.

“Cerdig –”

“Cerdig wouldn’t mind.” Darnel glances at Cynric. “Anyway … who’d tell him?”

Hengist gets up, and straightens his tunic. “I hear he even got cleaned up, all ready for me.”

“No!” Cynric is on his feet. 

Darnel scoffs; the rest exchange knowing glances.

“Arthur’s mine.” Cynric fixes each of them with a look. “If I’m to be the one who kills him, I should be the one who fucks him, too.”

Now they stare, seeing him with new eyes.

Darnel licks his lips. “That’ll add a bit of spice to the execution.”

Cynric doesn’t think he could hate him more.

Hengist nods soberly. “You go first, Cynric – that’s only right and proper. But after that, I do think we should all take a crack at him.”

“Just to put him in his place,” Badulf agrees.

“Alright.” Out-numbered by these brutes, Cynric needs time to think. He shrugs. “No hurry, anyway. Let’s have another drink. He isn’t going anywhere.”

“The anticipation’s half the fun, eh?” Darnel picks up the jug.

And though it hurts his face to do so, Cynric grins. “Pour me one. I’m going for a piss.”

He goes out, heads towards the latrine, then glances behind him. No one is watching him. 

~~

When he returns, he drinks his beer, but takes it slow, trying not to hear the others’ lurid speculations; trying to calm the turmoil in his chest. 

“Right!” Hengist stands up. “Ready to have some fun?”

Cynric nods, and stands with him. “Ready.”

As the four of them head for the prison hut, Hengist does something the like of which he’s never done before: he gives Cynric a playful punch, throws an arm round his shoulders, and says, “We’ll make a good team, you and me.”

Cynric is too shocked to think of a reply. He gestures at the two youngsters, Wulfstan and Erian, who are standing guard. “Get off with you. On my authority – you’re relieved.”

Erian casts nervous glance at Cynric, sees what’s in the faces of the men with him, then looks at Wulfstan. “But we were told to …”

“Go home!” Hengist barks.

Wulfstan twitches; they both scamper off like mice.

Hengist and the others laugh.

“Alright then …” Cynric adjusts himself lewdly, and shoves Hengist away from the doorway.

“Hey!” Hengist protests. “That’s the best seat.”

Cynric grins. “You don’t think I’m doing this with you lot watching, do you?”

“Well, be sure he makes plenty of noise.” Darnel says. “I don’t want to get bored while I’m waiting my turn.”

Hengist smirks. “By all accounts, he won’t be long.”

Cynric laughs, slaps Hengist on the arm, then goes inside.

In the flickering light, he can just make Arthur out, standing in the far corner of the hut: an animal at bay.

~~

There must be three of them, at least.

Arthur’s guts turn to water. He knows what’s coming … and there’s nothing he can do.

A tall, dark shape, outlined in torchlight, blocks the doorway: Cynric, of course. Arthur has known, since the first day, that this man had a plan for him.

“What do you want, Saxon?” Arthur spits the words out.

Cynric stands, loose-limbed, watching him. “You.” 

Arthur drags in a breath. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.”

In two strides, the big Saxon’s pressing up against him, holding a blade against his throat. “Cry out,” Cynric says softly.

“I wouldn’t give you the satisfaction.”

“Cry out, damn you!” Cynric repeats, low and urgent.

“Why should I? What new game is this?”

Cynric steps back, and lands a vicious kick on Arthur’s shin; Arthur lets out a yelp. Then Cynric knocks his legs from under him.

Arthur lands on his front, and Cynric piles on top of him, pressing him to the ground.

“Get on with it!” Hengist calls out. “What are you doing? Giving him a kiss, first?”

“Make some noise.” Cynric pinches Arthur’s flank. “They must think I am –”

“Raping me?” Arthur squirms. “Isn’t that what’s –”

“No!” Cynric hisses.

But Arthur feels him stiffen, and his own damn prick responds. His soul weeps, though his eyes are dry. This wasn’t how he wanted it to be.

“Might as well lie back and enjoy this, while you can,” Cynric bellows. “In two days’ time, I kill you.”

“Do it now, you bastard,” Arthur says thickly. “I don’t care.”

Cynric catches him by a tuft of hair, yanks his head up, and whispers in his ear, “Play along, will you? I’m trying to get you out.” 

“I don’t believe you.” Arthur bucks, trying to get free. He can’t let himself hope. 

Cynric manages to hold on. “Be still, or how can I untie you?”

Arthur sucks in a breath. “This is some trick.” He wrenches his hands from Cynric’s grasp.

Cynric growls, “Of all the obstinate, pig-headed, turnip-brained –”

And, without meaning to, Arthur stops struggling; just stops. Cynric sounds so like Llud …

At once, Cynric starts tugging at the ropes around his hands. 

Starting to believe, Arthur cries out, _**“Please don’t …”**_

“I’ll get you out, and I’m going with you.”

_**“No!”** _

There’s a raucous laugh from outside the hut. “That’s more like it!” Darnel shouts.

“Why?” Arthur says softly.

Cynric stops his work. “After this – they’ll kill me if I stay.”

“Hurry up!” Badulf yells.

_**“No! Please …”** _

“Need any help in there?” Darnel asks innocently.

Arthur lets out a moan.

“Fuck off,” Cynric grunts, then cries out, as if in the height of ecstasy.

The rope comes free. Arthur feels a surge of triumph in his heart, and something hard – the handle of a dagger – in his hand. “How many?” he murmurs.

“Three.” Cynric gets to his feet, draws his own dagger, and – holding it straight up behind his forearm – set himself square in the doorway of the hut.

~~

“Come on – give someone else a go!” Darnel nudges Hengist in the ribs, then comes towards him.

“Yes, you’re not the only one wants –” 

Cynric stands firm. “Piss off! I haven’t finished with him yet.”

“Go on – give yourself time to recuperate.” Darnel tries to push past him.

“No!” Cynric shoves him back. 

Hengist holds up a hand. “Come on, Cynric – a good leader doesn’t keep all the spoils of war for himself. He rewards his men.”

Cynric purses his lips. There’s nothing else for it, so he steps out of the way. He just hopes Arthur’s ready. “Alright then,” he says, loudly. “Go on in.”

Hengist pushes Darnel aside. “I’m next in rank.” He goes inside the hut.

There is a soft grunt; the sound of something falling.

Darnel takes a step forward, and Cynric’s blade is buried in his guts before he takes another.

Badulf stares. He turns to run, and cries out “Cerd–” but Cynric draws his axe and splits his skull.

Cynric knows – without having to see – that Arthur is beside him: where he was always meant to be. But still, it doesn’t hurt to look …

Arthur’s eyes are gleaming. “That was smoothly done.”

“Yours?”

“Won’t be joining us. Where are the horses?”

Cynric leads Arthur through the sleeping village to where the beasts have been left, saddled and bridled all this time; no Saxon’s had the nerve to try to take the contraptions off. Cynric supposes he’s lucky they’re still alive.

Both beasts make soft noises of welcome as Arthur unhitches them, and Cynric collects the leather bag he left hanging on a nearby post.

“Will one of them bear me?” Cynric asks.

“You can’t ride?”

Cynric shakes his head. “Had you forgotten? I’m a Saxon.”

Arthur laughs. “From tonight, you’re at least half a Celt. But – for now – we’ll lead them from the village. Mount up when we’re clear.”

“The gates are manned. Surely our best chance is to ride over anyone who –”

Then there is a loud clanging from their left. “Celts! Celts, at the west gate!”

“Keep your head down,” Cynric says softly. “We’ll try to go out the north-east gate. If anyone sees us, put your hands behind your back.”

The camp starts stirring into life: men pulling on clothes and boots as they scramble from their huts. Amid the chaos, no one bothers to ask Cynric where he, and a man wearing his clothes, are taking two horses.

No one … until they meet Cerdig rushing from his longhouse, buckling on his belt. He stops still, and rubs his eyes. “What’s going on? Where are you going?” He peers into the gloom. “Is that Arthur?”

Cynric puts a hand on his axe haft. “We’re being attacked from the west. It’s the Celts. I’m taking our prisoner to a more secure location. The prison hut’s too near the west gate.”

Cerdig nods, then frowns. “And the horses?”

“They … were restive. I feared if they heard the others, they might break free, and run amok in the camp, while we’re trying to defend ourselves.”

“Yes … of course.” Cerdig frowns. “Good thinking.” He hurries off towards the sounds of battle, calling over his shoulder, “Best you stay out of this too. Big day coming up – don’t want you getting injured.”

Others hurry past, all girding themselves to defend the village; when he and Arthur reach the north-east gate, there’s only one man on it.

“Moving the prisoner,” Cynric says curtly. “Cerdig knows about it. You should go and help defend the west gate.”

“But –”

“Go on! Move!”

The sentry hurries off.

As they get outside the palisade, Arthur appears to be choking.

“What’s the matter?”

Arthur shakes his head. “That was … so easy!”

Then there’s a shout from behind them. “Treachery! Arthur’s gone!”

~~


	9. Chapter 9

Arthur looks towards the cry, then at his horse, and then at Cynric. He hears Llud’s voice telling him to get on his horse and go; he sees Cynric brace himself to be left behind.

But Arthur won’t leave him.

All his life, he’s felt an empty space beside him. Now, for the first time, someone fills that emptiness, and makes him whole.

“Quickly then.” Arthur gives Cynric a shove. “Stand on that log.”

Cynric’s face breaks out into a brilliant smile. “Oh … thank you.”

Arthur leads the black gelding round to stand next to the log. “Foot in the stirrup.”

Cynric lifts one foot.

“Not that one – the left!”

“Sorry.” Cynric shakes his head, and puts his left foot in the stirrup Arthur’s holding for him.

“Hands on the saddle, and throw yourself over the horse.”

On Cynric’s first try, the saddle starts to slip around the horse’s belly, and he almost lands on his back. Arthur has to put out a hand, to stop him falling.

The next time, Arthur gives him a boost, and Cynric manages to mount. He sits there, very still, staring at the horse’s neck. “What must I do?”

Arthur goes round the horse, and puts Cynric’s other foot in its stirrup. “Just don’t fall off.”

“I’ll try.” Cynric sounds uncertain.

“And don’t worry. You’ll soon learn.” Arthur mounts his own white mare and ruffles her mane. It feels good to be on her back once more. “For now, I’ll lead you.” He leans across, and takes Cynric’s reins.

“That’s probably for the best …”

Arthur cocks his head. “They know I’ve got away, but I can’t hear anyone coming after us.”

Cynric looks towards the rising din of battle. “Probably no one can be spared. Is that your people, come to rescue you?” 

“I’m sure it is. We must get to them. Not let them waste lives.”

Cynric nods. “Of course.”

Arthur urges his horse forward; Cynric’s follows. They skirt the Saxon village, till they come out on the open plain in front of the west gate, where the Celts are trying to battle through, under a hail of spears.

Arthur calls out to the nearest Celtic warrior. “Dane! To me!”

Dane turns. “Arthur?” He comes towards them, straining to see whether it’s really true. “Arthur! You’re –”

“Yes, I’m free. Tell the others – call off the attack.”

His eyes widening, Dane raises his sword. _**“Arthur! Behind you! Saxon!”**_

“I know.” Arthur glances over his shoulder. “Cynric’s with me.”

Slowly, Dane’s mouth drops open.

“Go on then you – spread the word.”

Dane turns and gallops back into the fray, yelling, “Arthur’s alive! He’s here! Fall back!”

“Can you take your reins now?” Arthur passes them over, and Cynric runs his hands along them, trying to work out where to hold them.

Arthur reaches across, and pats him on the arm. “Just stay here, while I help my people.”

“I could come –”

“No. You couldn’t. Stay back, and stay on.”

“Of course.” Cynric looks up. “Arthur – good luck.”

Arthur grins, and heads towards the battle. 

~~

News about Arthur quickly spreads; Cynric hears more voices calling out: “Fall back! Retreat!” But as the Celts start to withdraw, three Saxons rush out of the gate, brandishing burning torches at their horses.

One huge beast panics, and bolts, and then another; most of the rest are soon caught up, careering back towards the woods. A white horse, its eyes rolling, its neck lathered with foam, its rider clinging to its mane, pounds within a yard of Cynric as he sits and waits, and suddenly Cynric’s on the ground, not knowing how he got there.

Hooves go thundering past him; he just covers his head, and hopes.

When he dares look up, he sees more Saxons pouring through the gate, in pursuit of the Celts, who’ve all gone past, leaving him between them and Cerdig’s men.

Cynric leaps to his feet, and draws his axe, prepared to defend his life.

~~

Arthur manages to drag his horse to a halt, and Llud pulls up beside him.

“Arthur!” Llud claps him on the back. “We thought we’d have to take on all of Cerdig’s men to get you back. But you … you cunning dog! You got away.”

“I didn’t do it by myself.” Arthur glances around; sees Cynric’s horse wandering, riderless. He grips Llud’s arm. “Where’s Cynric? Have you seen him?” 

“Cynric?” Llud frowns. “How would I know? On our tails, I should think.”

“No! He got me out.” Panic expands to fill Arthur’s chest. “Cynric saved me, Llud. He must still be back there.” Arthur turns his horse toward the village. 

“You’re going back?” Llud seizes his reins. “Have you lost your mind?”

“He betrayed his own people, to save my life.”

“You can’t risk –”

“ _He_ did.” Arthur looks into his father’s eyes. “Llud … I have to. Give me your sword.”

“What?”

“Give me your sword – Cerdig has mine.”

Llud shakes his head, and hands it over. “I’ll want it back. It’s new.”

Arthur takes it. “Thanks.” He kicks his horse. “Yar!”

“You risk your life for a Saxon, that’s your choice,” Llud calls after him. “Don’t expect everyone else to do the same.”

~~

Some way outside the gates, Arthur can see a group of Saxons gathered round one man. His axe is drawn – he turns this way and that. His tawny mane shines in the torchlight. 

The crowd around him yells, ‘Traitor!’ ‘Murderer!’ ‘Kill him!’

Now and then, part of the circle surges forward, but not one Saxon has the guts to take him on. Not yet. 

Arthur thunders in among them, laying about him with his sword, scattering them – all but one. 

It’s Cerdig who stands firm, facing Cynric: axe in hand. Arthur considers running Cerdig through right here and now; but this is Cynric’s fight – not his.

~~

Cerdig spreads his arms out wide, inviting Cynric to attack. “Come on, you traitorous whelp!”

Cynric swings his axe around his hand. He’s dreamed of the day when he’d avenge his father … but somehow, now the chance is on a plate, his heart just isn’t in it. “I don’t want to fight you.”

“You should have thought of that before you –”

Quick, for a stout man, Cerdig lunges forward, slicing the air next to Cynric’s left ear; Cynric leaps aside. 

His axe held out in front of him, Cerdig says simply: “Why?”

“I can’t be the son you want. You asked too much. Tried to make me your butcher.”

“It was for your good!”

Cerdig rushes him; their axes crash, and become locked together. Cerdig’s gaze, hurt and uncomprehending, burns into Cynric.

“I raised you from a cub –”

“I never asked you to.” Cynric tries to pull free. 

Cerdig pushes back towards him. “But … I’m your father.”

“No.” Cynric manages to free his axe. He slashes at Cerdig’s belly, tearing his shirt. “You killed my father.”

A look of shame flashes across Cerdig’s face, but then he sets his jaw. “I should have done the same to you, you ungrateful son of a …” Slowly, his axe drops to his side.

Cynric, too, lowers his axe. “You have to let me go.”

Cerdig looks utterly destroyed. “You’re all that’s left of her.”

“I know. You have to let me go.”

“But … who will lead my people, when I’m gone?”

Cynric shrugs. “Not me.”

Even now, the Saxons are re-grouping; Cynric hears them baying for his blood, and more are teeming through the gate to swell their numbers.

Arthur’s been standing back; now, his horse jostles against Cynric. Arthur says sharply: “Come on, if you’re coming.”

Cerdig looks up at Arthur. _“You …”_ His face reddens. “Arthur of the West … Why can’t you just go, damn you!” He throws his axe on the ground. “Go, but leave me my boy.”

“What? Leave him here, to die a traitor’s death?”

“You think I’d …? No! He’ll not be harmed.” Cerdig turns to Cynric. “I swear it … only stay.”

Cynric can’t feel anything but shock, seeing his step-father beg. He looks from Arthur to Cerdig, and back again. 

Arthur’s face goes blank. Without a word, he offers an arm, and – before either of them can change their minds – Cynric takes it, and pulls himself up behind him.

“Hold fast to me,” Arthur says.

Cynric wraps his arms about Arthur’s waist. At once, Arthur kicks his horse, and they take off.

Throwing Cerdig one last bone, Cynric calls over his shoulder: “Goodbye … Father.”

Cerdig’s face contorts. He drops his arms and stares, as his warriors stream past him, giving chase.

~~


	10. Chapter 10

They ride, as fast as the poor horse can bear them, to where the Celts are waiting anxiously amongst the trees.

“This is Cynric,” Arthur says. “He’s with us now.”

Gavyn and Rhys each give Cynric a wary nod, but most just stare, though no one says a word. Llud puts a hand out to Arthur, to reclaim his sword.

In a low voice, Arthur says, “I _will_ bring Cynric home.”

“Then let’s get moving, before any _more_ Saxons get here,” Llud says dryly.

Cynric flinches. Nevertheless, he asks, “Shouldn’t you charge them down? Discourage them from following us into these woods?”

“Are we gonna take advice from a Saxon?”

Arthur looks daggers at the man who spoke.

But Cynric knows he must get used to this. “Who better to tell you what will deter a Saxon?”

Some of the Celts nod. Llud turns in his saddle. “Arthur?”

“In the trees, we lose our advantage. It makes sense to stop them now.”

“Let me down,” Cynric says. “They’re nearly on us – I’ll just hinder you.” 

Arthur steadies his horse, Cynric dismounts, and the Celts form a ragged line, either side of their leader. Then, with a shout, they race forward: Arthur in the lead.

Some of the Saxons are cut down; many more, knocked to the ground, and trampled. Then Cynric hears Cerdig’s horn sound the retreat. Most of those Saxons who still can, start running back towards the village.

Arthur drags his horse to a halt. “Leave them – let them help their wounded.”

The Celts turn back towards the woods; as Arthur follows them, a Saxon runs up to his horse, and grabs him by the leg.

Cynric sees Arthur reaching for his sword … but he’s unarmed. The Saxon – Hengist’s young brother, Heolstor – clings on, trying to drag Arthur to the ground, yelling: “You’ll pay for this, in blood!”

Arthur kicks out, turning his horse this way and that, trying to shake him off.

Cynric starts running from the trees.

Arthur is stabbing at Heolstor with a dagger; he keeps missing, and it’s not enough to make the Saxon lose his grip.   
His lungs almost bursting, Cynric pushes himself to run faster.

Arthur’s lost a stirrup – he’s being pulled from the saddle. 

All Cynric can do is throw his axe; it seems to hang in the air for an eternity before the head crunches into Heolstor’s back. He screams, and falls, twitching. Cynric comes panting to a halt beside him, pulls his axe out of the Saxon’s spine, and finishes him off.

This time Cynric gets a fairer greeting on their return.

~~

Though it’s dark, the group has little choice but to set off for home; they can’t make camp so near the Saxon village.

At first, they talk amongst themselves, but the woods swallow their voices; soon, only the horses’ quiet progress intrudes upon the silence; or an owl’s mournful call.

Exhaustion catching up with him, Arthur sways in the saddle. Cynric reaches around to take the reins from his hands, and Arthur lets him do it. Now and then, if the terrain gets too uneven, Cynric has to nudge Arthur awake, as their horse picks its way carefully between the trees.

But after some time – Cynric doesn’t know how long – he hears what sounds like a rowdy group of men, making merry. Soon, they see the flickering light of a campfire up ahead.

Llud is riding beside them – probably keeping an eye on him, Cynric thinks – so Cynric leans across, and whispers: “These must be Saxons from another territory, travelling to attend Arthur’s execution.”

Llud whispers back: “We should divide up, and go around them. We’ll make less noise that way.” He gives Cynric a steady look. “If I go with that lot, you’d better look out for Arthur.”

Astonished, Cynric nods eagerly. “Yes … yes, of course.”

Arthur jerks awake. “What’s going on?”

“Sshh. Saxons nearby. We have to sneak around them.”

Arthur blinks at him. “Alright.”

The group splits, some going left of the camp; some to the right. Arthur’s group is almost past when Gavyn, up ahead, comes upon a Saxon, taking a piss behind a tree. 

The man has time to cry out: “Celts!” before he falls, skewered on Gavyn’s blade.

Soon, there are drunken, frightened Saxons spreading out among the trees, in all directions, yelling, and slashing with their weapons, panicking the horses. 

Celts crash away through the undergrowth. Arthur’s horse stumbles down a bank, and Cynric just manages to drag him clear, so the horse doesn’t crush him.

The horse struggles to rise, but Arthur has the presence of mind to stop it. Talking quietly to it, he gently pulls the horse right down onto its side, and lies next to it among the bushes, holding its head, keeping it still and quiet, while men, and horses churn through the woods to either side.

At last, the sounds die away.

“I think they’ve all gone,” Cynric says.

Arthur lets the horse haul itself to its feet.

“Is it hurt?”

Arthur feels up and down its legs. “No. We’re in luck – she’s fine. Now we’d better try and find Llud and –”

“No,” Cynric says firmly.

“What?” 

Arthur’s not used to being told what to do.

“Arthur … you’re too tired, and so am I. In the dark, we’ll as likely find more Saxons as your people. You’re without a sword, and we’re in no state to defend ourselves, let alone anyone else.”

“But I’m their leader!”

“Llud can take care of them, for tonight.”

For a moment, Arthur looks as if he wants to argue the point, but then he sighs. “I suppose you’re right. We’ll just have to hope they have the sense to lie low until dawn, then find their own way home.” Arthur’s so tired, he leans against Cynric, just a little. “But what are we going to do?”

Cynric briefly puts an arm round Arthur’s shoulders, then he cocks his head. Now that the noise of fleeing Celts and pursuing Saxons has died away, Cynric can hear the sound of water over stones. “Let’s just see where that noise is coming from.” 

They set off, leading the horse, and, in a moment, come upon a stream throwing itself over a small waterfall.

Cynric grips Arthur’s arm. “I thought so! There is a cave, a mile upstream. We can hide out there until dawn.” 

Arthur nods sleepily. “Alright – let’s go.”

Cynric leads Arthur along the path, warning him of any changes in terrain – a slippery log; deep mud; ensnaring brambles. He feels the comforting presence of Arthur at his back, and tries to imagine where this path will really lead.

Somewhere wonderful, and strange.

~~


	11. Chapter 11

They reach the cave entrance.

Cynric draws his axe. “I’ll check inside.” He disappears into the cave.

Tired as he is, Arthur goes about the routine tasks. He tethers the horse, talking quietly as he unbuckles the girth. “My poor Andraste. It’s alright – we’ll soon be going home.”

The horse whickers gratefully when he takes off her saddle, and rubs her back.

Cynric emerges from the cave, nods, and – without having to speak a word – they both start searching around for stuff to make a fire.

But Arthur feels so very cold and tired – he shudders, and drops some of his armful of wood and kindling.

“Here – let me get that.” Cynric quickly gathers it up. “Go inside. We’ve got enough.”

Another time, Arthur would baulk if someone told him what to do, as if he were a child, but now, he’s just glad to let Cynric take the lead. He pushes aside the ivy that covers the cave entrance, and goes in.

The cave is dry. Arthur sits down on a pile of leaves. “It’s good to have somewhere to rest that doesn’t squelch.”

Cynric avoids his gaze. “I’m sorry for how we treated you.”

Wishing he hadn’t brought it up, Arthur shakes his head. “It would have been much worse, if not for you.”

He watches, as Cynric pulls a tinderbox from his leather bag, and starts getting the fire going in a ring of stones. The stone circle looks like it’s been used many times before. “How did you know this cave was here?”

“I found it many years ago.” Cynric blows carefully on the little fire; it starts to catch. He feeds it some small twigs. “After my mother died, I ran away from Cerdig. Stayed here, living on birds’ eggs and rabbits – anything I could find … till Cerdig caught me.”

“Even then, he wanted you back.”

“He did.” Cynric shrugs. “I used to think it was just spite, but now …” He puts a few larger pieces on the fire, and – at last – looks up at Arthur. “Hungry?”

Arthur nods. He’s famished.

Cynric looks in his bag, pulls out a hunk of meat, and passes it to Arthur.

“Thank you.”

Cynric’s eyes show Arthur that he knows he’s thanking him for more than just the food; that nothing more is needed – so he eats in silence for a while. When he’s had half, he offers the rest to Cynric.

Cynric shakes his head. “I’ve eaten well enough today.”

Gratefully, Arthur finishes the rest, and Cynric passes him a skin bottle. Arthur raises it. “Here’s to your new life.” 

He takes a drink, and passes the bottle back.

Cynric raises it, and drinks, but he seems pensive. “To my new life – whatever that may be.”

Arthur sees, for the first time, that Cynric’s quietly terrified. “You’ll fit in,” Arthur says. “You’ve lived in the woods, and ridden a horse. You’ll make a fine Celt.”

When Cynric makes no answer, Arthur hopes he hasn’t over-stepped his bounds. “If that’s what you want.”

“I’d like to try.” Cynric looks abashed. “I made a poor Saxon.”

“Will you miss anyone at your village? … Cerdig?”

“Cerdig!” Cynric snorts. “As a child, I swore that one day I’d kill him. Maybe one day … As for the rest … some of the older men, and their wives – those who knew my father – have been kind to me. I bear them no ill will, but I won’t miss them.”

At last, Arthur plucks up courage enough to ask: “Is there no woman for you?”

Cynric glances up at him. “Many … yet none I care for.”

Arthur bites his lip.

“You?” Cynric asks.

Arthur shakes his head. The silence stretches.

At last, Cynric says, “I hope the rest of your people find their way safely home.” 

“Llud will be alright – he usually is. He’ll round them up.” Arthur stares into the flames, and adds a pine cone and a piece of bark. “Why did you do this for me? Save my life?” 

Cynric shifts uncomfortably. “Why would I not? Knowing the fate that awaited you, at my hands, if we should stay? You are a man, as I am. I couldn’t –”

“But to leave your life behind … You were to be their leader. You’ve given up so much.”

“Something I never wanted.” Cynric shows his palms to the fire, warming them. “I’m not cut out to lead.”

Arthur considers. “No man is born knowing how to be a leader. It’s something you have to learn, as I learned from my father, and then from Llud. I’m still learning.”

Cynric shakes his head. “The price for staying at Cerdig’s right hand was too high. I would not, for the world, learn what he had to teach me.”

“And that’s all?” Arthur can’t help hoping for something more.

“I felt that …” Cynric takes a drink from the skin bottle, and wipes his hand over his mouth. “– that if the world were different, we might have … been friends.”

“We still might …”

Arthur’s status loses, rather than gains him friends; his sharp tongue loses more. He’s been lonely. Perhaps Cynric’s friendship will be enough. 

Cynric is silent. He pokes the fire with a stick.

Arthur goes on: “What you have done … saved my life, at the cost of your future – if that was not a sign of true friendship –”

“So was it meant …” Cynric grimaces. “But will your people feel the way you do?”

Somehow, Arthur doubts it.

“They’ll come round. Word will spread about what you did for us while we were held prisoner.”

“But what will your village council say?”

“The Elders? The Lawgiver?” Arthur snorts. “Old men, who need warriors like you and me to protect them. Anyway, let’s worry about that tomorrow. But for now –” 

Arthur yawns, and stretches his arms and shoulders, hands behind his head. “I’m going to try and get some sleep.”

He pulls the sheepskin from beneath his saddle, lays it out on the ground, and lies down. But he has nothing to cover himself; despite the fire, he shivers … doesn’t try to hide it. 

Cynric takes off his cloak, and lays it over him.

Arthur hides a smile. “What about you? You will be cold.”

Cynric shrugs. “I’ll be alright.”

Arthur shifts a little, making space behind him on the sheepskin. “Lie here with me. Let us share what warmth we may. That is … if you –”

Cynric’s eyes flash wide. He ducks his head. “Of course.” Gingerly, he lies down behind Arthur.

~~ 

Does this mean what he thinks it does? Cynric can’t be sure. They are friends, or will be – Arthur has said so – and it’s cold … Arthur is cold. It makes sense they should share.

Cynric holds himself as still as he may, trying to keep his body away from Arthur’s; trying not to breathe hard enough for his chest to touch Arthur’s back.

But then Arthur reaches for his hand, and pulls him close.

Even if Arthur didn’t hear his sharp intake of breath, surely he must feel Cynric’s astonished heart pounding. If so … he doesn’t seem to mind. Above the thunder of blood in his ears, Cynric hears Arthur make a little contented sound.

It sets Cynric on fire, but still, he dares not move. He can’t believe it … Arthur of the West is lying curled within the compass of his body, holding his hand.

At last, he takes courage: strokes Arthur’s ragged tufts of hair – all that Darnel left him – breathing a sigh for the loss. A single hair from Arthur’s head is worth ten thousand thousand of Darnel and his ilk. If Cynric could pluck the stars from the sky, he would give them all to Arthur, and he’s about to tell him so, but … Arthur is asleep.

So Cynric lies awake, just holding him, and it’s enough; more than enough. It’s like a precious gift he’s yet to open; maybe he never will, but still, it belongs to him. The only sound – the brook lulling him, as he lies there, imagining what miracles the new day might bring. And then, sleep takes him too.

~~


	12. Chapter 12

When birdsong joins the sound of water over stones, and the first light of dawn creeps through the ivy, Cynric awakes. He’s hard, his length pressed against the back of Arthur’s thigh.

Arthur stirs, turns to him, and smiles. “And is this, too, a sign of true friendship among Saxons?”

Cynric feels himself blush to the roots of his hair. He pushes himself away. “And is this how a Celt repays a friendly act? With mockery?”

Arthur’s face falls. “Please … forgive me. I was not mocking you.” He averts his eyes. “I was glad.”

Cynric catches his breath. “You were?”

“Yes …” Arthur gets to his knees, and takes him by both hands. “I’ve waited all my life for someone who –”

Cynric closes the space between them, mashing their lips together. Their noses bump against each other; Arthur bites Cynric’s lip.

“Sorry …”

“My fault …”

They pull apart, nervous laughter catching in their throats. 

Cynric dips his head. “Shall we try again?”

Arthur’s eyes shine. “I want to … but –” 

“What?” Disappointment clenches Cynric’s guts.

“I need to …” Arthur glances downwards.

Cynric laughs. “Oh … well, yes – me too. You first.”

“Yes, I’d better –” Arthur gets up and disappears through the ivy.

When he comes back, as Cynric goes outside in his turn, he tries not to brush against Arthur, though he’s not sure why.

He stands facing an old oak. As he takes a piss, a blackbird comes to perch above him on a branch, and sings.

Cynric smiles. He takes a deep breath, and goes back inside.

Arthur is drinking from the skin. He passes it to Cynric.

Cynric drinks, plugs the bottle, and lets it fall to the ground.

This time they come together slowly, each man holding his breath; their eyes are locked, brown to blue, earth to sky. Their lips brush like mist on morning fields, the kiss, tentative as a moth’s wing.

But Arthur is gripping Cynric’s arms as if he’ll never let him go, and in this moment, Cynric understands that Arthur hasn’t done this before – any of it.

Cynric’s heart ignites; somehow, he holds himself in check. “Sshh, it’s alright. I’m not going anywhere.” He touches Arthur’s cheek.

Arthur turns away, hiding his face behind his hands. “You must think me terribly … bad at this.” He sniffs. “The girls all seemed to know … what I was. The men, too. I’ve never … I mean …”

Cynric gently turns Arthur back to face him, and takes Arthur’s hands in his. “No need to be ashamed. It makes me proud – to be your first.” 

“You … proud? To be with me?” Arthur laughs, as if he can’t believe it. “Each time you came to untie me, I could hardly breathe. If you knew how I’ve hungered for every touch of your hands … thirsted for the sound of your voice … hoped you might …” Arthur falls silent.

“Might what?”

Arthur’s voice is a bare whisper: “I dare not say.” He lies back on the sheepskin, his eyes pleading; begging Cynric to understand. 

Cynric leans over him, his hands on either side of Arthur’s head. “Might kiss you?” He kisses Arthur’s eyes, the long thick lashes tickling his lips.

Arthur breathes, “Yes …”

“Might spend the night thinking I’m dreaming, because you trust me enough to sleep in my arms?”

“Did you?” Arthur says softly.

“Yes.” He kisses Arthur’s mouth, letting his tongue slip between Arthur’s lips.

Arthur moans, and thrusts his hips; he takes Cynric’s left hand, and slides it down until it rests upon his prick.

Oh … how Arthur wants him …

Cynric gasps, and only just keeps control – but Arthur makes a choking sound, and comes, his wrenching cry nearly tipping Cynric off that same high cliff. 

Hiccupping sobs wracking Arthur’s slender frame; he writhes out from beneath Cynric. “I … wanted this … so …” 

Cynric reaches for him. “No … please don’t weep.”

Arthur scrambles away, covering himself. He gets to his feet, trips on the fleece, and crashes to the ground. “Fuck! Fucking, fucking fuck!”

“Arthur –” 

“I’ve spoiled it.”

“No …”

“I’m pathetic … useless … can’t even …” Arthur lies where he fell, his face against the stone floor of the cave. “You can’t want me now.”

“I do. I do want you.”

Arthur lifts his head.

“I didn’t know how much, until last night, but –” Cynric heaves in a breath. “I think … I love you.”

“You …” Arthur’s eyes widen. 

Cynric finds himself drawn into those midnight pools. He sees a man drowning in contradictions: terrified and brave, sultry and sulking, hesitant yet determined; untrusting, but wanting – needing – to trust.

Arthur shakes his head. “No – you can’t. How can you? You don’t know me.”

“But I do. At least …” Cynric moves closer. “Since I first saw you, I’ve felt … I’ve known that something binds us. You said that Celts and Saxons were born under the same stars. I say, there is one star for just we two. Call it love, or what you will, but we belong together. Don’t you feel it?” 

Arthur nods, hope blazing in his eyes. “So long, I’ve been alone.”

“Then be alone no more.” Cynric takes his hand. “You’ve got me now.”

Arthur swoops in, and kisses him fiercely, takes a deep breath, then drags the shirt Cynric lent him over his head, while Cynric watches, drinking in the sight: Arthur’s stomach, ridged with muscle; the trail of dark hairs leading up his middle to spread across his chest, surrounding flat pink nipples; a strong neck, and obstinate chin.

As the shirt comes off, Arthur sees that he’s being stared at; a pleased smile quirks his petulant mouth.

~~

Cynric runs his fingers down the side of Arthur’s face, his eyes wondering. “I’ve never made love to a –”

“A man?”

“A Celt. You’re different … you smell different …”

Arthur makes a face. “I haven’t bathed in days.”

“No, it’s good.” Cynric takes Arthur’s hand, turns it over and kisses the palm. Then he runs his nose along as far as Arthur’s armpit, and nuzzles into it.

Arthur can’t help giving an unmanly squeak.

“Ticklish, eh?” Cynric grins.

Arthur scowls. “You weren’t supposed to find that out so soon.”

“Your secret’s safe with me.”

Once more, their mouths meet. Cynric’s tongue seeks admittance; Arthur grants it willingly, letting him explore him; know him.

Long muscular arms cage him. Cynric curls around him like smoke – protecting him from imaginary foes, surrounding him, holding him; murmuring promises and reassurances, his brown eyes full of worship.

Arthur can feel Cynric’s cock nudging between his thighs; he doesn’t know what’s going to happen next, but soon, the rhythm of Cynric’s hips against his, makes him forget to be afraid.

His hair brushing Arthur’s ribs, Cynric drops a kiss in the middle of his chest, then another, and another, till he reaches the waistband of his breeches.

Arthur holds his breath.

Then Cynric starts kissing him through the cloth, and Arthur hears himself making sounds he’s never made before.

Cynric looks up. “I’m going too fast.”

“No, you’re not.” Arthur starts squirming out of his sticky breeches.

Then he glances at the mighty bulge at Cynric’s groin; knowing he can’t compare, his courage falters. What if Cynric laughs at him?

“I’m not as big –”

“Few are.” Cynric looks into his eyes. “Arthur … whatever you’ve got, it’s everything I want.”

How could he not believe?

As Arthur sheds his breeches, Cynric goes very still, breathes a sigh, then bows his head. “I’d like to …”

Then Cynric’s lips close around him.

Arthur gives a high-pitched cry. His cock is in Cynric’s mouth …

His hands hover at either side of Cynric’s head: whether to forbid, or force him to go on, Arthur doesn’t know. Engulfed in that warm wet heat, he’s broken open. “Oh … oh. No, I can’t …” 

Cynric draws off. “I’m sorry.”

“No … it’s just …” What is it he’s afraid of? Cynric has earned his trust. “I’m just not used to –”

~~

Cynric understands. He wants so much to make this good for Arthur, but his own first time … he feared he would be torn apart. “We don’t have to –”

“But –”

Such frustration and disappointment on Arthur’s face – Cynric can’t stand it.

“Arthur … it’s alright.” He palms Arthur’s cheek. “Put your hands on my shoulders. If it gets too much, you can push me away, or box my ears – anything you like. If you want more, just squeeze.” 

Arthur bites his lip. He rests his hands on Cynric’s shoulders.

Cynric takes it slow, stroking Arthur’s thighs and belly while he sucks his prick; drawing off now and then to make sure he’s alright, or just to see how beautiful he is.

He loves everything about Arthur; his innocence; his slim waist; the soft hair around the neat dagger at his groin, his firm muscular arse, everything so tight and in control … till now. 

Sometimes he feels Arthur caress his cheek; sometimes, his fingers tangling in his hair, and then he worships with greater fervour. Arthur is coming to a peak; his hips lift up; Arthur’s hands grip his shoulders and squeeze tight, and Cynric puts everything he has into it, thinking ‘my love … my Arthur …’ 

As if he’d heard him, Arthur jerks, and comes down Cynric’s throat, whimpering, “Oh, oh, Cynric … my …”

He sinks down onto the sheepskin, spent, and warm, and glowing, and Cynric crawls up his body to lie on top of him. He strokes Arthur’s temples with his thumbs. But once more there are tears in Arthur’s eyes.

“What’s wrong …?”

“Nothing … I’m …” Arthur sniffs, and dashes a hand over his eyes. “You can’t know what this means to me.”

“Then tell me.”

Arthur just shakes his head, and smiles through his tears. “I don’t have the words. But I can show you.”

He draws Cynric down for a kiss.

When Cynric is released, he rolls off to the side, and heaves a sigh. “So … do you think you might ever come to love a Saxon?” 

Arthur gently slaps him on the arm. “Just one.”

Then he closes his eyes and falls asleep.

~~


	13. Chapter 13

Arthur wakes to see golden brown eyes looking towards him, brimful with wonder. So … it was no dream. Cynric is still here.

Arthur reaches across and touches Cynric’s cheek. “It’s you, you know.”

Cynric frowns. “What is?”

“The one Saxon.” Arthur breathes a happy sigh. “I love you.”

Cynric’s face breaks out into a brilliant smile. “I love you too – Arthur of the West.”

“West, east, north or south, I’m yours.” Arthur lets his gaze run down Cynric’s body. “Speaking of south … I’m sure it must be my turn now.”

“Your turn?”

“To … see you …”

Before Cynric can reply, Arthur starts peeling his breeches down. 

Though Cynric doesn’t try to stop him, Arthur hears him take an anxious breath – as if he fears Arthur won’t like what he sees. Arthur can’t think why, but … Cynric was not boasting. He’s big … he’s very big, and still half-hard.

Arthur swallows. “May I … touch you?”

Cynric laughs, relieved. “Yes, of course … please, yes …”

But Arthur has never touched another man’s … another man. First, he strokes the curls in Cynric’s groin. Cynric’s back arches a little; Arthur slips a hand between his thighs, and Cynric’s eyes fall closed. Arthur draws his hand back, claiming his balls, his fingers tangling in golden wires.

Just touching him like this is making Arthur hard again, and he can hear his own breathing, fast and shallow, as – at last – he slides his hand up Cynric’s length, and looks at what he holds: a mighty sword within a silken sheath.

Cynric saws his cock through the ring of Arthur’s hand, and moans, “Oh … yes …”

Arthur licks his lips. Cynric sucked him to make him come … he should return the favour but ... 

He’s so long, thinking about it, that Cynric opens his eyes.

~~  
 _  
Arthur looks … daunted. Still, he gamely dips towards my cock._

_I put a hand under his chin, and tilt his head up. “Don’t.”_

_“But, you –”_

_“Not that … not today, sweetheart.”_

_His eyes widen. “Will you … take me, then?”_

_The thought sets my pulse racing. Arthur looks down at my suddenly-rampant prick. His face goes pale._

_I shake my head. “One day … if you want me too. But not this time.”_

_“You’ve done so much for me.”_

_Arthur looks frustrated with himself._

_I touch his arm to reassure him. “I’m not keeping score. As you can see …” I glance downwards. “Everything I need, I can take at your hand.”_

_Relieved, and grateful, Arthur says, “Help me, then. I want to make you happy.”_

_I tell him the plain truth. “I’ve never been as happy as I’ve been today.”_

_Arthur blinks and smiles. “Please … tell me what you want.”_

_I let myself slide through Arthur’s hand. “Pretend it’s yours.”_

_Everything I own belongs to Arthur, now. “Pretend that you’re alone, pleasuring yourself.”_

_Arthur blushes._

_Perhaps I’ve overstepped … “You do –?”_

_“Oh, yes …”_

_~~_

_My confession makes me feel hot all over. I drop my gaze, spit on my hand, and work his cock, as if it were my own – slowly at first, teasing the head on every stroke – and by the gods, it feels as if I’m touching myself as well._

_We move in time; the little gasps and whimpers that he makes, tell me that he feels the way I do. His eyes are closed, his head thrown back, his whole body moving under my hand._

_It takes but little time to bring him to proud fullness._

_I cup his balls and lightly rake my fingers through the hairs._

_Cynric clenches – “Arthur … please …”_

_His body is a bow pulled tight, ready to loose its shaft, but I hold him, drinking in the sight: his brow bejewelled with sweat, his face naked in ecstasy and need. And then I give a firm stroke, once, then again._

_Cynric makes a guttural sound, and comes, spurting over my belly. “Oh, my love …” He rests his forehead against mine, then he looks up, and grins. “I’ve made a mess.”_

_I smile back. “We can wash in the stream.”_

_“Arthur?”_

_We both turn to see Llud, standing in the entrance to the cave. His sword is drawn. “Arthur – are you …?”  
_  
~~

Cynric freezes; if he were to move, Llud might think he’s reaching for a weapon, and besides … Arthur is naked.

And struck dumb.

Llud stalks towards them, laying his sword point on Cynric’s neck. Taking in what he sees, Llud’s face flickers from anger, to confusion, to concern. At last, it settles on flat calm. He puts up his sword, and takes a step away.

“I saw your horse outside. You were lucky no Saxons … well, you know what I mean.” He stares at them once more, then shakes his head. “I’ll wait outside. If I could have a word, Arthur?”

Straight-faced, Arthur says, “Of course.”

Llud disappears outside.

Silence falls.

Cynric bites his lip. Arthur’s mouth starts to quiver, then he curls up into a ball of silent, helpless laughter.

Cynric doesn’t know what to make of this.

Finally, Arthur splutters, “The younger … generation!”

“Is Llud very angry?”

Arthur pulls himself together, and pats Cynric on the arm. “He’ll be alright – you’ll see.” He drags his clothes into some semblance of order, and goes outside.

~~

Llud is standing with his hands behind his back, looking straight ahead.

Arthur clears his throat. 

“Oh. There you are.” Llud turns a disapproving glance on him. “What the blazes do you think you’re playing at?”

Arthur sighs. “Llud … you must have known my interests do not lie with girls.”

Llud strikes him across the face. “I’m not talking about that, you idiot. I’m talking about holing up deep in Saxon territory, without setting a watch! Leaving your horse tied up outside, if you please, to tell anyone who happens to be passing, ‘There be a Celt inside this cave’! Have I taught you nothing?”

Arthur rubs his stinging cheek. “Sorry. I should have been more careful.”

Llud peers inside the cave. “And you! Cedric – or whatever your name is! You’re old enough to know better!”

“Sorry, Llud. We were tired. I wasn’t thinking. It won’t happen again.” 

Arthur can’t help smirking.

Llud looks surprised, then grunts, apparently satisfied. “So, are you two lack-brained fools ready to go?”

Arthur puts a hand on Llud’s arm. “Give us but a little time to get cleaned up.”

Llud’s eyebrows rise. “I don’t need to know the details. And neither does the whole village, you hear? Keep this between yourselves. Let them get used to having your Saxon play-mate around before you …”

Arthur nods soberly. “Yes. Of course.” 

~~

They set out for home, Llud leading the way along a narrow trail.

Out of respect for Llud, instead of mounting up behind Arthur, Cynric walks beside his horse.

“Where are the rest of us?” Arthur asks. “Is everyone safe?”

“Yes, all accounted for – on their way home already. I stayed behind to look for you.” Llud glances over his shoulder at them. “You two.”

They carry on in silence for a while. Finally, Llud says, “So … Cynric … you think you want to throw in your lot with us, do you?”

Cynric nods. “If it is allowed.”

“If I say it’s allowed, then it is,” Arthur says sharply. “I’m the leader.”

Llud shakes his head. “It will go easier if you ask permission of the Lawgiver … let the village elders have their say.”

“We have no law against newcomers joining us. Our people bring in those from other villages to live with us all the time, without asking permission.”

“When they marry,” Llud replies. “And they don’t marry Saxons.”

Arthur’s face sets in stone. “Cynric is an ally. He saved my life – probably yours as well.”

Llud rolls his eyes. “Alright, keep your … what happened to your hair?”

Cynric hates to admit his failure, but he must. “While I was at the Giant Stair, Darnel … I didn’t think he’d – I’d have stayed behind …”

Llud shrugs. “Never mind. Hair grows. But Arthur – you know that some will think as I did. That this is a trick. That Cynric is there to spy on us, for Cerdig.”

“Spy on us? Llud, he could have killed me while I slept.”

Llud blows out a breath. “Well, you can tell them that, but I don’t advise it. And you!” He gestures to Cynric. “If you’re going to fit in, you’d better get used to riding a horse. Get up behind Arthur, or we’ll never get home.”

~~


	14. Chapter 14

Tugram’s told them all to look out for Mark of Cornwall’s men, in case the Cornish lout should try something in Arthur’s absence, so when Rhys – on sentry duty – sees three mounted men come over the skyline, he’s not slow to draw his weapon. His heart beating fast, he prepares to shout a warning.

But before it leaves his lips, he recognises the wide blaze on the bright chestnut horse, and Llud’s familiar outline. The man on the white horse must be Arthur – though something about him doesn’t look quite right. 

Relieved to see his leaders safe, Rhys calls out: “They’re back! Arthur’s back! Arthur and Llud have come home!”

He shades his eyes against the late afternoon sun, and as they come nearer, Rhys realises that the third horse is the black one that could not be caught after the fracas at the Saxon camp. And it bears a tall blond figure – Cynric.

Rhys is glad he’ll have the chance to shake the Saxon’s hand.

Soon, everyone in the village has gathered by the gate. Tugram bustles here and there, chivvying them into neat order, and looks nervously about, hoping all will be to Arthur’s satisfaction. “Bring some mead,” he tells one of the girls. “They’ll be dry.” 

She runs to do his bidding.

Rhys hears some of the watching crowd start to mutter amongst themselves. They seem to have noticed that one of the approaching group is blond.

“What’s he doing, coming here?”  
“Are we gonna ’ave an execution?”  
“Where’s my sword?”

“Hey!” Rhys shouts.

They all look towards him.

“S’cuse me, Tugram, but I got to have my say. This Saxon that’s coming along of Arthur – he’s alright, he is. I don’t reckon so many of us’d have come home safe, if it weren’t for him, and I’d have lost my hand. So don’t you go giving him a hard time, or you’ll have me to answer to.”

The others who were held captive by the Saxons – even Conyn – back Rhys up, so by the time the travellers arrive, the grumbling has subsided.

A rousing cheer goes up as they come through the gate, and Tugram pushes the girl with the cup of mead towards them.

Her wide brown eyes stare up at Cynric, as if she has been put under a spell; she bobs a curtsey and offers him the cup.

Arthur’s countenance darkens.

“Your leader first,” Tugram mutters to the girl, and nudges her in his direction. “Sorry, Arthur. She’s –”

Arthur shakes his head. “No … it’s alright.” He puts a hand on Cynric’s arm, and turns to address the crowd. “This is Cynric – a friend to this village, and to me. He saved my life.”

Another cheer, and Cynric’s face turns red.

~~

After they have slaked their thirst, and hunger too, Llud gets up from the longhouse table. “I’d better call a council.” He gestures vaguely at Cynric. “Get all this sorted out.” 

Tugram puts a hand on Arthur’s shoulder. “I’d like to go round the camp with you, if I may. Show you what’s gone on while you were …”

“Of course.” Arthur gets to his feet.

Not knowing what else to do, Cynric gets up and follows them, but, as they reach the door, Arthur turns to him and says, “Wait here for me. I won’t be long.” Scything an irritated glance at the gaggle of young women watching from a distance, talking behind their hands, he adds, “And don’t let anyone bother you.”

“Don’t worry – I’ll be fine.”

With a last look over his shoulder, Arthur goes with Tugram.

Cynric sits on a bench outside the longhouse and looks around. He’s starting to relax. This village is not so different from his own – though the people seem more kind.

After a little while, a girl of six or thereabout, with red hair and green eyes, approaches him. She has a puppy in her arms; she holds it out towards him.

“This is Willem. Do you like him?”

“Of course. He’s a fine fellow.” Cynric ruffles Willem’s ears, and the little dog licks his hand. 

Before long, Cynric is surrounded by curious children, tugging on his cloak, and asking his name, and whether he’s really and truly a Saxon. 

“Not any more,” he tells them.

A few older boys, who’ve been hanging back, finally approach, and ask to see his axe.

“Careful now – it’s heavy.” 

As they examine it, Cynric sees some older men go past into the longhouse. These must be the Elders, come to decide his fate, but they don’t notice him among the crowd.

An anxious voice inside his head says: ‘What if they decide you cannot stay?’ A quieter voice says: ‘What if they decide that you must die?’ He shakes his head. Arthur would not let them …

As if called by his thought, Arthur is at his shoulder.

“Here he is,” Arthur says to Llud, who’s standing in the longhouse doorway.

The children fall silent and start to wander off – all except the little red-haired girl. She looks up at Cynric from beneath her eyelashes. “Will we see you later?”

Cynric nods. “I hope so.”

Llud jerks his head. “They’re all here, ready for you.”

Arthur puts a hand on Cynric’s shoulder. “Let’s go in.”

That’s when Cynric notices that Arthur’s wearing different clothes – he must have washed and changed. Both he and Llud have big ceremonial cloaks about their shoulders. 

Feeling suddenly daunted, Cynric wishes he’d done something to prepare … at least cleaned himself up. “Are you sure they’ll want to see me?”

Arthur glances at Llud.

“Yes, of course. Come on.”

Cynric swallows. 

Arthur briefly clasps him by the hand. “Don’t worry.”

Cynric breathes in through his nose, and nods, then they go in. 

The five old men around the longhouse table are discussing past campaigns, their aches and pains, the weather, and the mead they drank last night. They don’t even look up when Cynric comes in with Llud and Arthur.

Finally, they see him looming over the table, and one of them – a man with a head like a bird, sprinkled with white hair – drops his mug, and squawks, “You scared the life out of me!”

Cynric ducks his head to the old fellow. “My apologies.” He bends to pick the mug up off the floor, and refills it from the jug.

All those sitting round the table look astounded.

The grey-haired man with a hooked nose, sitting at the head of the table, slams his own mug down. “Well, that must be the first time I’ve ever heard an apology from a Saxon. Worth a meeting, just for that, eh?”

There are a few nervous chuckles.

Llud clears his throat. “Well, Cynbal, perhaps I should have warned you. This Saxon is to be the subject of our discussion.”

A bald man, with a round face, frowns at Cynric. “Why aren’t his hands tied? Isn’t he our prisoner?”

Cynric forces himself to stay relaxed, and tries not to look threatening. 

“No, Dai – he’s here on Arthur’s recognisance,” Llud explains. “I’ve called this meeting so the council can consider his formal request to take up residence in our village – to become one of us.”

Looks of surprise pass between the Elders.

“One of _us?_ ” Dai splutters mead over his neighbours.

Cynbal, the hook-nosed man, says bluntly: “Why?”

Arthur raises his hand. “It’s thanks to Cynric that I’m here with you, now.”

Dai looks sceptical. “How can this be true? A Saxon –”

“Do you doubt my word?” Arthur turns on Dai with a look of fury. 

Llud puts a hand on Arthur’s arm, and says softly, “It’s alright, Arthur.”

Cynbal raps on the table. “As Lawgiver, may I remind you that the Elders are entitled – nay, obliged – to ask any questions they think pertinent.”

“My apologies,” Arthur mutters, still glaring at Dai.

“Yes, it’s true,” Llud says, addressing the whole meeting. “Cynric helped us while we were held captive – treated us fairly. Unlike –”

Arthur cuts in: “And when the others were ransomed, Cerdig was going to have me executed. That’s when Cynric –” 

“Executed?” the white-haired man pipes up, horrified. His head wobbles on his neck.

“Yes, Glyn – I was to be killed. But Cynric smuggled me out … fought against his own people, on our side.”

“That’s admirable … or treacherous depending upon your point of view.” Cynbal strokes his chin. “But I say again, why? Why does he want to live with _us?_ ”

“You can’t expect him to go back to his own village!” Arthur bursts out.

It gives Cynric a warm feeling inside. 

Cynbal shakes his head. “What I expect, or don’t expect, is immaterial, but my question stands. Why here?”

Llud clasps his hands behind his back. “Well, perhaps you’d best ask him that.”

All the old men turn towards Cynric.

Cynric doesn’t know what to say. He can’t tell them the truth – not the whole of it. He clears his throat. “Well … I like horses.” 

One of the old men chuckles.

“And I don’t like the way Cerdig is leading us – always more fighting and bloodshed.”

The Lawgiver nods gravely. “That shows sound judgement on your part.”

Glyn puts his hand up. “Do you have no ties to your Saxon home? No wife, or family?”

“All my family are dead. Cerdig killed my father.”

Dai grunts. “I see. So this is part of your revenge on him.”

“No! Never! But I don’t belong with them.”

“You don’t belong here, either,” Cynbal says dryly. “Not yet, anyway.”

“He belongs where I say he belongs,” Arthur insists.

“Well, you seem to have found a staunch ally in Arthur,” Glyn observes.

“And I’m grateful for it.” Cynric looks Arthur in the eye, then meets the gaze of each man sitting around the table. “There’s no one whose lead I would rather follow.”

Arthur seems to stand taller.

“You realise that once accepted as a member of our people, you will bear all the same obligations as any of us?” Cynbal fixes him with serious grey eyes. “Are you ready to accept this?”

“Gladly,” Cynric replies.

“Alright.” Cynbal steeples his fingers. “Then we’ll proceed. Do you hereby forswear all ties with your Saxon past?”

“I do.”

“And will you swear fealty to the Celtic alliance?” Glyn says.

“I will.”

Dai looks down his pudgy nose. “And accept any punishment we see fit, should you betray that alliance?”

Cynric lifts his chin. “I will not betray it.”

Cynbal smiles faintly. “Well said. I can see you are a warrior. Will you bear arms on our side, and learn to fight on horseback?”

Cynric feels his face break out into a broad grin. “Certainly, I will.”

Another of the Elders adds: “And follow all commands given by your leader?”

Cynric looks into Arthur’s eyes and says sincerely, “Yes.”

“Whether it be Arthur, or, should he fall in battle, whoever takes command?”

“He will not fall in battle while I fight beside him. But yes …”

“And lastly,” Cynbal says, “– will you accept a Celtic name? Whatever name Arthur chooses to bestow upon you?”

A new name … Cynric had not expected that. “Gladly.” He looks to Arthur. “Give me my name, and let me start afresh.” 

Arthur frowns. “I would speak with Llud, alone. Is that permitted?”

Cynbal nods. “It is.”

Arthur and Llud go through a wicker door into another room.

Silence falls.

Cynric tries to stand still; tries not to meet anybody’s eyes. Then he realises that he’s fingering the haft of his axe. He looks up. The old men are studying him.

Cynric carefully lays his axe down on the table.

“So … you like horses, do you?” Cynbal says.

~~

“What’s this about?” Llud asks quietly.

“Llud … when we were held prisoner, you gave me your son’s name. Now, I would pass that name to Cynric, and call him ‘Kai.’”

Llud bites his lip. “I … don’t know, Arthur …”

Arthur takes Llud by the shoulders. “As you are my father in all but blood, so is this Saxon my brother – as your son would have been, had he lived. Cynric is a brave man. He would bring honour to your son’s memory.”

Llud considers a short while, then he nods. “It is fitting. Cynric brought you back to me. He’s earned the right to bear this name.”

~~

By the time Arthur and Llud return, Cynric is seated at the table, with a cup of mead in his hand, talking with the Elders about the benefits and disadvantages of the axe over the sword.

“Cynric – I have chosen your new name.”

Cynric gets to his feet, and pulls his shoulders back. “I am ready. Tell me how I shall be called.”

“You will be called ‘Kai.’ Bear this name with honour.”

Cynric takes in a sharp breath. He couldn’t have hoped for better. “Yes, of course.” 

Llud nods approvingly. As he lets go of his old name, Cynric wonders what the meaningful looks that pass between some of the old men might signify.

“Then it’s decided.” Cynbal stands and raises his cup. “Let us drink to the new member of our people – Kai. Once a Saxon – now a Celt. All except his hair!”

~~


	15. Chapter 15

Arthur is relieved when it’s all over. The Elders depart; Llud goes to do the rounds of the sentries, and Arthur finally has Cynric – no … _Kai_ – to himself.

He puts a hand on Kai’s shoulder. “Let’s get some fresh air.”

“Surely.”

They go outside, as the first stars are coming out.

Arthur leans against a rail. “Sorry we had to put you through all that.”

Kai leans beside him. “A small price, for such a reward. And I think you were more anxious than I was.”

Arthur laughs. “You’re not far wrong. Most of those old f– … _men_ have known me since I was a child, and my father before me. I’ve had them looking over my shoulder, questioning my judgement, all my life.” He stands upright, and turns away, his hands clenched into fists. “If they’d said no –”

Kai puts a hand on his arm. “But they did not. Perhaps they’re not so foolish after all.”

“Perhaps you’re right.” Arthur’s lips quirk. “You’re good for me, you know.”

Kai dips his head, embarrassed.

“So. How do you like your new name?”

Kai glows with pleasure. “Something else I must thank you for. I first knew you as ‘Kai’, and – for your sake – I loved that name. But why did you have to first ask Llud’s advice?” 

“Permission, actually.” Arthur glances sidelong at Kai, hoping what he has to say will not disturb him. “It was the name of his son, killed many years ago … by a Saxon.”

Kai’s eyes widen. “And he agreed that I should take this name?”

Arthur smiles ruefully. “You’ve done well to win him over so quickly.” 

“I hope hearing his son’s name spoken will not cause him pain. He does look … sad.”

“Do you think so?” Arthur frowns. To him, Llud was always … just Llud.

“Sometimes … yes. I might be wrong.”

“I don’t think you are.” Arthur feels a pinch of guilt that it took a stranger’s eye to see it. “Perhaps having two of us to keep in order will help take his mind off his sorrow.”

“I hope so.”

But Kai still looks as if something is troubling him.

“Everything alright?”

“Never better. It’s just … it’s foolish, but … where am I to sleep? And where do you go, to …”

“To …?” Arthur shakes his head. “Sorry. I’ve been thoughtless. The latrine is that hut over there.”

When Kai comes out, Arthur says, “As for where to sleep –”

“Put me where you like. A barn or outhouse –”

Arthur laughs, and pats him on the back. “I wouldn’t hear of it. Just come with me.”

~~

Kai follows him into the longhouse, then through the wicker door Arthur and Llud went through before. Inside, is a sleeping chamber. There are three beds in the room, but one, the largest – a grand affair – is bare of coverings.

“This was my father’s bed.” Arthur lays a hand on the carved headboard. “It has been empty for too long.”

Kai takes a step backwards. “Arthur – I can’t.”

“Not for you. It’s time _I_ started using it.” Arthur gestures at a smaller bed, covered with fleeces. “You can have mine.”

Kai can’t take this in. He is to sleep in the same room with Arthur … in Arthur’s bed. Arthur will not be in it, but …

“We won’t be on our own.” Looking apologetic, Arthur points at a third bed, with a few threadbare blankets on it. “Llud sleeps there. He snores like an old boar, but you’ll get used to it.”

“He won’t mind me –?”

Arthur shakes his head. “Stop worrying, will you? Just relax and make yourself at home. I have to leave you for a while – there’s something I must do. There’s water in that pitcher, if you’d like to wash and change. Take some of my clothes from that chest – anything you like. I’ll be back soon.”

And with that, Arthur just leaves him there. 

Kai shrugs to himself, then pours some water from the pitcher into a bowl, finds some soap beside it, strips off, and starts getting cleaned up. When he’s done, he goes to the chest in the corner, and lifts the lid. Shirts, tunics – some thick with metal studs or rings – breeches, and socks, and belts.

Three books sit at the bottom of the chest. They look old and precious; Kai doesn’t touch them. And there’s a box that might contain jewellery, and a small pouch, that jingles.

Kai marvels at how he’s trusted.

As he tries to choose some clothes, picking out what seem to be Arthur’s oldest things, he hears the door open, and turns around.

A dark haired girl stands in the doorway, with an armful of fleeces and blankets. Her eyes widen.

Kai covers himself with his hands. “Sorry …”

The girl swallows, but says nothing. She averts her eyes, and takes the pile of bedding to the empty bed, where she starts laying the things out.

Kai quickly pulls on some soft dark brown breeches, a blue shirt, and then his boots.

The girl finishes her work, pats the covers, straightens up, and turns to leave, keeping her eyes down.

“It’s alright – I’m dressed now.”

She looks up, and blushes prettily.

“I’m Cyn– I mean, Kai. Who are you?”

The girls shrugs helplessly, touches her lips, and leaves, without a word.

Not knowing what else to do in this strange place, Kai sits down on the bed Arthur has given him. He grabs a handful of the sheepskin, and presses it to his face. It smells like home … and Arthur. Arthur has slept beneath these skins. Kai can’t wait to smother himself beneath them, with Arthur just a few steps away.

And Llud.

Kai wonders whether there will ever be another time when they can …

Arthur has responsibilities; didn’t even tell him what this thing was, that he had to do, when he left him here, alone. Kai hadn’t realised how much Arthur bore upon his young shoulders – until now.

He can’t expect …

He sighs, and waits patiently.

~~ 

After a while, Llud comes in, and Kai gets smartly to his feet.

Llud waves a hand. “No need for that.”

“No, Llud. I want to thank you – for your welcome, and for my new name. I will try to be worthy of your son’s memory.”

“Oh … he told you about that.”

Kai looks at the floor. “No wonder the Celts hate the Saxons.”

“Well, there’ve been wrongs done on both sides. Perhaps this – you, coming here – could be the start of something new.”

Kai shakes his head. “No. I am a Celt now.”

“Fair enough. Anyway, this Celt is going to get his head down, if that’s alright with you … Kai.” Llud blinks, then his lips turn up into a smile.

“Of course – yes.” Kai smiles back so widely, it feels as if his face might crack.

“What about you?”

“I think I’ll just … stay up a little longer.”

This will give him the chance for some time alone with Arthur, and as Llud grunts acknowledgment, Kai thinks he sees a twinkle in Llud’s eye; he can’t be sure.

He goes out to the main room, and sits down at the table, where the jug of mead stands half-empty in the middle, with a bowl of ripe apples beside it.

Should he ask permission?

Then Kai remembers – Arthur told him to make himself at home; gave him his bed. Last night, he gave him more ... much more. Arthur will not begrudge an apple, and a cup of mead. 

He pours some from the jug, draws his dagger and starts peeling an apple.

When he’s almost done, the door creaks. Kai looks up.

“The peel’s the best part,” Arthur says.

“Well, that works out well – you can have mine.” Kai finishes his task and holds the bobbing green spiral out to Arthur.

Arthur reaches for it; their fingers touch; their eyes meet, and both peel and apple fall to the rushes as they come together. But Arthur allows them only one brief bruising kiss, then holds Kai away. “Not here … Llud …”

“Where then?” Kai’s heart is pounding, and his cock feels like cold iron plunged into fire.

“Follow me.”

Arthur leads him outside, but then he stops, puts a hand on Kai’s shoulder, and points to the heavens. “See? They are the same.”

“No. They’re different.” Kai looks up at the black velvet, studded with a million diamonds. “They’re more beautiful – because we’re here together, and you’re free.”

Arthur’s lip quivers. Then he slaps Kai on the arm. “Come on.” 

Kai follows Arthur through the slumbering village, to a hut a little way from all the rest. He can see torchlight flickering through the partly-open door.

Arthur leads him inside. “This is the hut we built for guests of our village. Visiting chiefs, and such like.”

The hut has a small fire-pit, with a good fire burning, and a bed piled with black fleeces of fine quality.

Kai blows out a breath. “You want your guests to be comfortable.”

“I want _you_ to be comfortable.” Arthur presses Kai’s shoulders, so that he sits down on the bed.

~~


	16. Chapter 16

Arthur has been thinking about this all day: getting Kai on his own again, and doing what he should have done last night; would have done if Kai – Cynric, as he was then – and his own lack of resolution, had not stopped him.

Keeping his eyes on Kai’s, Arthur drops to his knees. He can see Kai knows what he’s about to do; he wants him to know.

But Kai gives a slight shake of his head. “Arthur … don’t.”

Arthur feels sob catch in his throat. He wishes he could sink into the floor. He looks away, rejection bringing hot tears of shame welling behind his eyes. 

Then Kai’s hand is on his cheek. “I didn’t mean –”

“Well, what _did_ you mean?” Arthur lashes back, his voice thick. 

Kai looks into his eyes. “You are my leader now. You should not be on your knees, upon the ground.”

A bubble of relief expands in Arthur’s chest. “Your leader, am I?” He sniffs, and pulls himself together. “Make room for me then … I command you.”

Kai smirks, and shuffles back among the fleeces to lean against the wall. “Are you sure you want to –?”

“Yes,” Arthur breathes. “ _Please,_ Kai.”

Kai’s eyes widen. “How can I refuse?”

But still, he pauses for a moment – his mouth open, his chest heaving. Then he rolls his breeches down, and holds his prick between his two hands, offering it, like a supplicant with a candle. Offering himself.

Arthur licks his lips, kneels between Kai’s long legs, and takes him in his mouth – just a little way at first.

Kai sucks in a breath.

Arthur smiles to himself; he lets the head of Kai’s cock slide along his tongue, closing his lips around it; getting used to the heavy softness, and the feel of it stiffening at his touch; then he pulls off, and gently mouths the tender skin around the tip, taking the bitter salty taste of it on his tongue.

Kai murmurs. “You’re so good to me.”

Arthur looks up. “You did this for me.”

“That doesn’t mean you have to –”

Arthur puts a finger to Kai’s lips. “This is no debt of love, repaid. I want to.”

Then he shows Kai how much he wants it, kissing Kai’s rod as if his life depended on it, then taking him in, further than before. All these years, up till this moment, he’s been empty. Now, this golden duke is his: all his.

At least, for tonight.

But he’s seen the way the women look at Kai. Some of them even had the nerve to ask him whether Kai yet had a wife; Arthur could barely give a civil answer. Kai must never look at them; never even give them time of day – Arthur couldn’t stand it.

He can’t lose him now.

He lifts his head, leaving Kai’s prick standing tall, gleaming wetly in the firelight, and looks anxiously at Kai’s face.

Kai returns his gaze with adoration.

Arthur leans in and kisses him; quickly strips him of his boots and breeches, and spreads Kai’s knees wide.

“May I?” Arthur says.

Kai’s answer is a breathless whisper.

Arthur dips his head between Kai’s thighs, nuzzles against his balls, then takes each of them into his mouth, sucking gently.

Kai moans, and opens himself further, arching off the bed, and Arthur lets him slip out, and starts licking behind his balls and planting hot kisses in the hollows of his thighs, where Kai’s earthy scent is strongest.

Kai makes a keening sound.

Arthur never imagined being taken over by this frenzied heat. His old self would blush with shame to think of it. His neck hurts, and he can hardly breathe, but he can’t stop himself. He loves Kai so much, he wants to worship every part of him.

Yes, even there.

One day, he knows he will, but now, Kai’s moans tell him that Kai can’t take much more. Kai’s fingers flutter through his hair, adding their own silent plea.

Arthur lifts his head, and sees Kai’s balls tighten; Kai’s cock stands red and rigid, and the head is wet. Arthur lets his tongue flick across it.

Kai makes an incoherent sound.

Then Arthur takes him right in, letting Kai fill him to the back of his throat; swallowing around him. He’s never going to let Kai go; never.

But he’s so big … Arthur gags; has to draw off, but tries to hide it. Kai mustn’t know. Kai must love him always.

He goes down on Kai again. 

~~

Something’s not right. Kai clenches, puts a hand under Arthur’s chin, and – though he doesn’t want to – stops Arthur’s frantic sucking of his cock.

“Arthur …” Kai grasps himself; he nearly comes, just seeing Arthur’s swollen lips; the hunger in his eyes. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

Kai knows Arthur lies. “Tell me, sweetheart.”

“I can’t.” Arthur’s face is flushed and desperate.

“Please …”

Arthur drops his gaze. “I’m afraid.”

“Of me?”

He shakes his head. He looks as if he might be going to cry.

Kai pulls a fleece over his softening cock. “We don’t have to do this – or anything you don’t want.”

Arthur takes his hands. “I want to do everything with you … everything you can imagine – if I get the chance. But I’ve seen how they look at you.”

“Who?”

Arthur heaves a sigh. “You know … the others. Women. Not just the silly girl at the gate – all of them. I can’t stand it – I want to rip their hearts out. I don’t want to lose you.”

Kai grips Arthur’s upper arm. “Arthur … I came here to be with you, and no one else. How can you even think –?”

Arthur closes his eyes.

Kai pulls Arthur up to lie beside him. “Look at me.”

Arthur does.

“I love _you_. No one can take me away from you.” 

“Do you swear it?” Arthur gives him a searching look.

“On my life.”

“Only me, forever?” Arthur rests a hand over Kai’s heart. “Are you sure? I mean, don’t you want –”

“I don’t want anyone but you.”

“You say that, now. But Kai, I saw the way you were talking to those children. What about –”

Kai shakes his head. “Are there not enough children, with no one to protect them, that I should bring more into the world? No, Arthur. We both lost our parents. One day, some child may need a home, as we did. And then –”

And then Arthur’s lips are on his, gentle this time, kissing him soundly, and with so much love, Kai thinks his heart might burst.

Only when Arthur has to stop to breathe, does Kai get the chance to say, “I think you’re feeling better.”

Arthur smiles sheepishly, and nods.

“So can we get back to …” Kai frowns. “Why are you still dressed?”

~~

Soon, they are both naked, warm beneath the fleeces, pressed against each other, heart to heart, and thigh to thigh, as Kai coaxes them to fullness once again, with the long fingers of one hand. Kai’s other hand is just stroking Arthur’s face and neck, but it feels as if he’s being touched everywhere.

Then Kai climbs on top of him, clasping his hands, trapping them either side of Arthur’s head, and lets his hips roll in a sinuous rhythm, making their cocks slide and thrust against each other; teasing himself and Arthur till they’re both whimpering and sweating, desperate for release.

This is beyond Arthur’s dreams: the feel of Kai’s hardness against his, and the warmth and truth in Kai’s face, as he tells him how he loves him. Kai’s hair is a ragged halo, and Kai is his angel … his saviour.

Arthur hears himself moaning, “I love you, how I love you …” like a prayer. He thinks he might pass out.

Then Kai slips a hand between them, and cups Arthur’s balls, and Arthur moans, long and loud, and starts to come, spilling between them.

“Arthur, Arthur …” Kai hides his head in the crook of Arthur’s shoulder; his hips jerk, and he mingles his seed with Arthur’s.

Arthur strokes his hair. “My love …” 

~~

They lie in the glorious afterglow, snuggled amongst the soft dark fleeces. Arthur looks like a pale god, in the firelight; more relaxed than Kai has ever seen him.

“Um … Arthur?”

Arthur runs a finger down the middle of Kai’s chest. “Yes, my Kai?” 

Kai braces himself for a guilty admission. “I think I might have scared one of the women of your village.”

Arthur lifts his head. “How? I hope you didn’t show them the monster in your breeches?”

“Well …”

Arthur pouts, and gives him a playful slap.

“By mistake! I had just finished washing. A dark haired girl came in –”

“That’s Lenni. She’s our healer, and a mute.”

“Well she came to put some fleeces and blankets on your bed.”

“ _My_ bed?” 

“Yes.” Kai frowns. “Something wrong?”

Arthur shakes his head. “She was supposed to take mine from _your_ bed, and give you the clean ones!”

“I don’t mind one bit.”

Arthur rolls his eyes. “I suppose I can’t blame her if she was befuddled at the sight …”

“Speaking of bed – won’t Llud be wondering where we are?”

“He’s not that old,” Arthur says. “But perhaps we should think about going back. There’ll be plenty more time for … this.” Arthur slides a hand down and squeezes Kai’s arse. “There’s so much I have to show you – so many places to take you, where we can –”

“Teach me how to ride properly?” Kai blinks innocently.

“Yes, and –”

“Show me where the best hunting is to be found?”

“Yes, and –”

“Where the biggest fish are to be caught?”

“Yes, and –” Arthur wriggles against him.

“Teach me to use a sword?” Kai suggests.

Arthur grins. “If you’ll show me how to use an axe.”

“Well, we must each learn to … wield the other’s weapon.” Kai reaches for Arthur’s. 

“Yes, we must become champions.” Arthur gives a languid thrust into his hand: his spirit willing, though the flesh is weak. “Mustn’t let them get rusty from lack of use.”

“We’ll need to practice diligently.” 

“Night and day,” Arthur says.

Kai grunts. “Night and day? You’re a hard master …”

“Well, let’s see how hard I can get.”

“Already?” Kai stifles a yawn.

“Perhaps not.” Arthur laughs, then can’t stop himself yawning too. “I am a little tired. Shall we just –” 

“Mmm.” Kai pulls Arthur to him.

They enjoy the warmth and closeness.

After a while, Arthur says, “You know – when Llud and I were captured – I was so afraid. More than I’d ever been before. I thought it was the end of everything.” He brushes a lock of hair from Kai’s face. “And then – there _you_ were. And it was just the beginning.”

“For me, too,” Kai says.

“Just think … if I’d never tried to ambush Cerdig –”

“And if I’d managed to persuade him not to hide those warriors in the wagons –”

“We might never have even met.” Arthur’s face bears a look of dread.

Kai shakes his head. “We had to meet.”

Arthur cocks his head. “Destiny?”

“Of course,” Kai says. “You and I were born under the same star.”

~~

Fin


End file.
